


phoenix Tears

by Phoenixstrike



Series: Phoenix Tears [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Depression, Guilt, Heavy Angst, Implied/Referenced Abortion, Infidelity, M/M, Recovery, foetal anomalies, late-term abortion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-01-01 08:00:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 53,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1042335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Phoenixstrike/pseuds/Phoenixstrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>HP/DM eventual slash, HP/GW in the beginning and past references of Harry/surprise. It's been years since Voldemort's defeat, and Harry thought he was done with losing the people he loved. Fate thought otherwise. As it deals Harry its wickedest blow, can Harry ever get over it? And who will be the one to help him rebuild his life? A story of recovery. Please read warnings and possible triggers inside. Heavy angst-filled Drarry fic. EWE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fate's Cruellest Blow

**Author's Note:**

> _Harry Potter and all its indicia are © JK Rowling, Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books, Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros. I own none of the copyright, and this fanfiction makes no money_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  **Pairings:** Harry/Ginny, Harry/Draco (main pairing), Harry/?, Ron/Hermione
> 
>  **Warnings/possible triggers:** Heavy angst in the opening couple of chapters, references to foetal anomalies and late-term abortion (20 weeks). The abortion does NOT happen 'on stage', but is mentioned in the story frequently. Moderate, non-explicit slash sex. Infidelity (on Harry's part, past references) Usual bad language.
> 
>  **A/N:** While this starts off depressing, it will have a happy ending. Please do heed the warnings and triggers before reading, as it covers a topic some may find upsetting. This story was written after a friend, who feeds me so many plot bunnies (nom nom), asked me very, very nicely (and persistently!) to write this one. So, Brittany my love, this one is for you.
> 
> I have no clue yet as to final word count, but it will be more than likely novel length. It will be irregularly updated, so please don't expect a chapter a week.

_Fascinating creatures, phoenixes. They can carry immensely heavy loads, their tears have healing powers, and they make highly faithful pets." —_ Albus Dumbledore, 'Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets'.

* * *

The 'room in use' sign attached to the heavy grey door belonging to an examination room at University College Hospital, London, gave an audible, ominous snap as the professor of foetal medicine and obstetrics slid it into its hold. Harry Potter followed her, a midwife, and his pregnant spouse into the ultrasound room, carrying a folder of parchment spelled to look like ordinary Muggle paper notes in his right hand. He swallowed loudly, desperately trying to dampen his mouth, which was bone-dry from nerves.

The hospital was far too hot and clinical, and the air had a faint tinge of disinfectant, furniture polish and laundry detergent. The hurried footsteps from overworked members of staff echoed loudly off the plain white walls and vinyl floors as they dashed through the corridors. It had been sixteen years since Harry had set foot inside a Muggle hospital, and the smell had instantly transported him back in his mind's eye, to when he was a young boy of just nine and had to have stitches in his chin after falling in the school playground. It left Harry feeling faintly sick.

"Please lie down on the examination table, Mrs Potter," the doctor said kindly, and Ginny- looking pale and exhausted- nodded numbly, doing as she was told. The midwife held out a hand to Harry for the notes but with a knowing look at Harry, the doctor shook her head and took them instead. She dismissed the slightly bemused midwife then and waited until she had exited the room before speaking.

"Now as you know, Mr and Mrs Potter, your Healer in St Mungo's found an anomaly with your baby during routine diagnostic spells this morning, at Mrs Potter's twenty week check-up, and referred you here to UCH for assessment," she said in a low voice. The professor was a kind woman. She was a Muggle, but had a wizard cousin who was a Healer at St Mungo's, and had worked closely with the magical hospital for over ten years. She dealt with complex and problematic pregnancies for which magic couldn't help, whilst helping to keep the Statute of Secrecy in place. She opened the folder and scanned over the now- visible handwritten notes, jotted down onto the parchment in bottle green ink. Harry held his breath as he saw a frown of concern cross the doctor's face as she read. His eyes flittered to Ginny's face. Her lips were pressed together and her chocolate- brown eyes were huge and frightened.

"Okay," the doctor said after a few minutes, "I'm going to perform an ultrasound scan of your baby and have a look at what's going on. Are you aware of what this procedure entails, Mrs Potter?"

Ginny nodded. "Harry told me about them," she said in a tiny voice. It was the first words she'd uttered since the pair had arrived at the London hospital by taxi just under an hour ago. She reached out a pale, freckly arm, clearly searching for Harry, and he took her hand, holding it tightly in his own. Harry noticed her fingers were trembling. The doctor gave her a small reassuring smile and dimmed the lights. Instantly the monitor of the ultrasound machine became brighter, and looked like the old fashioned black and white television that Harry remembered Mrs Figg owning when he was a young boy. The doctor entered Ginny's name and date of birth into the computer, and tucked some tissue into the band of her trousers. She applied some cool jelly to her bare abdomen, and pressed the wand of the scanner against it firmly.

Harry looked at the screen, and his first emotion was one of relief. There was a baby on the screen: a live baby who was clearly moving. His relief was short-lived, however, when he looked at the doctor's solemn face. She wasn't looking at either him or Ginny, instead focussing on what appeared to be the baby's head. She was silent as she typed a lot of information onto her computer and appeared to be taking measurements of the baby's skull, nose and neck. She also seemed to be paying close attention to the arms and hands. Eventually, after what seemed an eternity, she turned to them. Her expression was grim.

"What is it? What's wrong?" Ginny said, but the doctor simply shook her head, handing Ginny some more tissue to clean up the gel. After a minute, in which time the tissue had done nothing more than smear the gel around further, Harry's fragile temper snapped. He snatched the tissue from Ginny's hands and waved his wand, which removed all traces of the gel from his wife's skin, and then Vanished the sticky wad with an angrily called out " _Evanesco_ " in the blink of an eye. The Muggle doctor's eyes widened momentarily as she watched the display of magic, but she quickly regained her professionalism.

"Let's discuss my findings away from here," she said. "The Quiet Room will be perfect for me to talk privately with you both." Harry felt his heart drop extremely unpleasantly at those words. Good news would have been shared there and then. Couples receiving reassuring, positive news are not herded into something called the fucking Quiet Room to get the results from their scans. The grip on his arm from Ginny's hand was painful, but he made no attempt to remove it.

They followed the consultant out of the scanning room, pointedly ignoring the couples in the waiting room who were excitedly gazing at the scan pictures of their babies- perfectly healthy, no doubt- and made the small walk to a room at the end of the corridor, away from the main goings-on of the department. The doctor opened the door for them, and as they stepped inside, it became painfully clear that Harry's worst fears had just been confirmed; the room was set up for parents to be told the worst possible news. It was neutral in décor, with calming prints of landscapes and famous landmarks adorning the large pale walls, and large spider plants and orchids in pots. There was also the tell-tale box of tissues on top of a small pine table, next to a squashy leather sofa. The doctor gestured for Harry and Ginny to sit on the sofa, whilst she took the free armchair opposite it.

"Please," Harry said as soon as the doctor had sat down. He could hear the fear in his own voice. "No beating around the bush. Please just tell us what's going on with our baby."

The doctor smiled at them both then, but not in a way that could have reassured Harry in any way shape or form. It was the same smile that Hermione had given him just after the loss of Sirius, and it was full of sympathy and completely devoid of amusement.

"St Mungo's," she began, her tone full of compassion, "identified an anomaly with the chromosomal make-up of the foetus this morning, and referred you here for a more detailed assessment. I've conducted a thorough ultrasound examination of your baby, and I regret to inform you that my findings are the same. Mrs Potter, Mr Potter, I believe your baby has a condition called Trisomy 13, commonly known as Patau's syndrome."

"And what is that?" Ginny asked, a tear track forming on her pale cheeks. "How can you treat it?"

Harry only needed to look at the doctor's face to know the answer: _You can't_. He closed his eyes, bit his bottom lip and tried in vain to keep his breathing even and calm, as a large buzzing sound began to flood his ears.

"Mrs Potter, Trisomy 13 is a chromosomal abnormality," the doctor said gently. "And it's an extremely severe condition. The majority of babies with the condition do not survive pregnancy, and for those that do, life expectancy is extremely limited. Most infants that survive pregnancy die within a few days of birth. Only ten percent of babies with the condition live to their first birthday, and all have serious, life-limiting health problems."

Ginny burst into tears, her hand pulling sharply out of Harry's grip and going to her stomach, where she cradled the small bump in her hands. Harry watched the scene stoically, feeling oddly detached. _No_. _This is not happening_.

"And you're positive, are you? That the baby has this condition?" he heard himself ask. The doctor nodded grimly.

"The foetus has many of the markings I would expect to see in one with this condition," she said. "The skull is extremely small and measuring only fifteen weeks in gestation, and there is a large pool of fluid at the back of the neck. At twenty weeks we would expect this nuchal fold to be no more than six millimetres thick, however in your baby it is ten. The foetus also has a cleft palate and lip, and there is an absence of the nasal bone. In addition to these findings, your baby also has a condition called polydactyly, which means there are extra fingers on each hand. Combined with the information about chromosomal abnormality from St Mungo's, I'd say I'm about as certain as I can be that your baby has Patau's. I would like, with your consent of course, Mrs Potter, to perform an amniocentesis test to confirm the diagnosis, but I would be incredibly surprised at this stage if the foetus didn't have the condition."

"What's an amniocen-whatsit?" Ginny asked. Her voice was breaking with the effort of trying to control her tears, and her eyes were red and blotchy. Harry continued to sit numbly as the doctor explained the procedure to her, staring at one of the pictures on the wall. It was of Niagara Falls. Harry had always wanted to go there. He'd read an article once in a Muggle magazine about a boat trip called the Maid of the Mist…

"…Harry!"

Harry snapped out of his thoughts and returned to the present. It still didn't seem real. Any moment now and he would wake up, realise that this had all just been a hideous dream, and they'd not yet gone to St Mungo's for their check-up, and he would laugh at himself for his ability to conjure such vivid and disturbing dreams. Because he was not currently sitting on a sofa in a Muggle hospital, being told his unborn child was going to die. He just was not.

"I was just telling Dr Carmichael that I will agree to this amniocentesis test," Ginny said, somewhat waspishly. "It's good that you were listening to something so important."

"I can perform this test now if you like, Mrs Potter," the doctor said. "I have a clear schedule this afternoon for once." Ginny agreed and stood up, wiping her eyes furiously on the back of her hand. The doctor opened the door to the Quiet Room, and they all exited.

It would have been obvious to anyone at that moment just what the nature of the news he and Ginny had just received was, and Harry felt as if every pair of eyes in the vicinity was on them. He may as well been ringing a bell and wearing flashing lights to attract attention, given how much everyone was staring, effectively making him feel like an animal in the zoo. He ignored the long- and wholly unwelcome- glances of sympathy he and Ginny were receiving from both staff and expectant mothers alike, only just biting down the urge to yell at them all to fuck off. They returned to the main area of the maternity unit and entered yet another room. It was smaller than the one where the scan had taken place, with a more comfortable bed, but had another ultrasound machine located within it.

Ginny signed the consent form then lay on the bed, and the doctor swabbed her stomach with alcohol. Then she applied more gel.

"I need to perform an ultrasound at the same time," she explained. "It's so I can guide the needle accurately."

For the second time that day, Harry saw the image of his baby on the screen, and he felt a sob rise in his throat, which he quickly swallowed. The doctor removed a long and extremely thin needle from its sterile pack, and explained the procedure to Ginny once more. Ginny gasped and cried out when the needle penetrated her abdomen, crushing Harry's hand in her grasp. Harry uttered soothing nonsense he didn't believe himself and stroked her hand with the pad of his thumb.

It was all over a few minutes later.

"I will have the results for you tomorrow," the doctor said, removing the gel for Ginny herself this time and handing her an aftercare leaflet. "You may have some vaginal spotting, and this is normal, but if you experience heavier bleeding, please do come back here, or make your way to St Mungo's." She gave them both that irritating, sympathetic smile again and Harry- his anger incredibly close to the surface right now- fought the urge to hex her. This bitch who had just given him the worst news of his life. He didn't care if the rational part of his brain told him it wasn't the doctor's fault, and she was doing her best to help them; it was easier to feel blame, fury, towards someone, than allow the grief in that was threatening to overcome him at the news that the baby they'd so desperately wanted was almost certainly going to be taken from them.

He and Ginny made an appointment for the following morning to return for the results and then numbly headed for the exit. They climbed into a taxi which was waiting on the rank and Harry told him the address for Grimmauld Place, which was no longer under the Fidelius Cham. The journey didn't take too long. Once they arrived, Harry paid the driver with a Muggle note, told him to keep the change, and escorted Ginny inside.

As soon as the front door closed behind them, Ginny broke down in huge, noisy sobs, causing the portrait of Sirius' mother to burst open and shriek. The rest of Grimmauld Place was unrecognisable from its time as the headquarters to the Order, but that bloody painting remained, still unable to be removed from the wall. And the mood Harry was in, he was suddenly glad for it. He drew his wand and cast every curse he knew, from a simple Stinging Hex to the Cruciatus Curse at the woman. He knew it couldn't actually hurt her, given she was just a painting, but she screamed and shrieked most satisfactorily all the same as Harry vented his feelings.

Twenty minutes later, completely spent, he forced the curtain closed across the paining once more and sank to the floor in an exhausted heap as the portrait fell silent. He noticed that Ginny was no longer there; he wondered when she'd left. He dragged himself up off the floor and headed into the kitchen. Ginny was sitting on a chair, an untouched mug of tea in front of her. Her eyes were swollen and puffy. She was reading the aftercare leaflet the hospital had sent home.

"Sorry," Harry said. Ginny didn't look up. Instead she stood from her chair, tipped the untouched tea down the sink and left the room. Harry sank into her vacated chair, closed his eyes and let his head fall into his hands.

*

Neither of them had gotten any sleep the previous night. Harry had lain awake on his back, staring blindly at the ceiling, whilst Ginny tossed and turned next to him, or cried softly into her pillow. Neither had spoken much.

At the first sign of dawn, they had risen from bed, dressed, and entered the kitchen. Harry made Ginny some toast, whilst touching nothing himself. He didn't think he'd be able to stomach anything that morning.

"I don't want it," Ginny said, as Harry slide two slices of wholemeal toast with Marmite towards her.

"You need to eat, Gin. It's not good for you or the baby to have an empty stomach." The words came out automatically, and Ginny visibly flinched. It hadn't been the most tactful of remarks, given the circumstances. Harry cursed himself for his stupid mouth and without another word of persuasion for his wife, Vanished the toast with a flick of his wand.

At half past eight, he and Ginny left the house, and Harry hailed a passing black cab. They arrived at the hospital just before nine. Their appointment was at nine-thirty so, as they had a few minutes to kill, they chose to take the stairs rather than the lift, each step echoing their footsteps noisily throughout the deserted stairwell.

Ginny sat next to Harry in the waiting area, and he took her hand firmly in his. He noticed she was trembling, and her skin was white. He knew he didn't look much better; he'd caught sight of his reflection in the bathroom mirror that morning and he was pale, his cheeks were gaunt, and his eyes bloodshot from lack of sleep. His mouth was like sandpaper, he noticed, and stood abruptly, letting go of Ginny's hand and making his way to the water cooler on the opposite side of the room. He filled two small plastic cups with water, and returned to his seat, handing one of the cups to Ginny, who drank it. Harry suspected she was drinking it merely for something to do, as minor a distraction as it was.

Was it really only twenty four hours since they'd entered this nightmare? This time yesterday, Harry reflected, he and Ginny had been looking forward to their appointment at St Mungo's. They had been hoping to hear the heartbeat for the first time, and maybe even find out the sex of the baby. Harry had been so excited; it was the first of Ginny's antenatal appointments he'd been able to attend due to work commitments. And now, just a day later, they were in a different hospital waiting to be told if their child was going to live or die. Harry let the empty cup fall from his fingers and, with a dry sob, let his head fall into his hands.

"Mr and Mrs Potter?" Harry looked up as Doctor Carmichael appeared at the door. "Would you like to come in please?"

Harry took Ginny's hand and they stood. He noticed that Ginny was leaning on him heavily, and he put his arm around her shoulders.

"It'll be OK," he murmured, words he knew meant absolutely nothing to either of them at that moment, and supported his wife as they made their way into the room.

As soon as they sat down, Harry knew it was bad news. The doctor looked extremely grave.

"I have the results from the amniocentesis," she said, her voice gentle, "and they confirm my suspicions from yesterday. The foetus does have complete Trisomy 13. It's the most common, and severe, form of the condition, I'm afraid." She paused then and gave them both a look of pure compassion. "I am so very sorry."

"What happens now?" Ginny asked. She was crying now, tears glistening on her cheeks, shining in the harsh artificial lighting of the room. "I mean, what do we do?"

"You have two opinions," the doctor said. "You can choose to continue with the pregnancy and allow nature to take its course. This means you will give birth naturally, and is an option that some parents with babies suffering with the condition choose, as it does hopefully allow them some time with their baby and time to bond, if the child is born alive."

"What's the second option then?" Harry asked. He had a horrible feeling he already knew, and, when she spoke, the doctor confirmed it.

"The second option, Mr Potter, is that the pregnancy is terminated in utero," she said. "Many parents cannot face continuing with the pregnancy knowing that their baby die very soon after delivery, and opt for a medical abortion. They feel it is the lesser of two evils and that they're preventing their baby from suffering. They also feel they'd find it harder to cope if they lost the child after carrying them to term and spending time with them after birth, or if the baby died in utero and they had to have their labour induced and deliver a stillborn child."

"Oh God," Ginny whispered. "And we have to _choose_? I don't even know how to do that!"

"I will not persuade you in either choice," the doctor said. "There is no right decision. Only what is best for you both personally, and what you feel is best for your baby. We can arrange for you both to speak with councillors if you wish, but ultimately it has to be your decision."

"How is an abortion carried out?" Ginny asked. Harry's head snapped up to look at her.

"Gin," he began, not knowing how to finish his sentence. Surely she wasn't actually _considering_ that as an option?

"Well, it would depend on whether you chose to have the termination here or at St Mungo's," Doctor Carmichael said. "I'm not completely familiar with the procedure there, but as I understand it, it's very similar to how we carry out a termination here. You're given medication- a potion if you choose St Mungo's, I believe- which stops the foetal heart-"

Harry had heard enough. Without looking at the doctor or his wife, he stood abruptly and stormed from the room. He was not going to sit there and listen to the doctor explain to him and his wife how she or a St Mungo's Healer would terminate their child.

Ginny hadn't followed him out of the room. Harry began pacing the waiting area, desperately trying to calm down. He realised he was shaking violently. With a quick check for watching Muggles, and finding none, Harry drew his wand discreetly and performed a Cheering Charm on himself. Whilst the result didn't leave him feeling at all cheerful, it did at least have the desired effect of calming him enough to stop the trembling and allowed him to think straighter. He re-entered the room.

"I'm sorry for walking out," he said. "But that was just too much to hear at the moment." He sat back down and took Ginny's hand in his. Doctor Carmichael gave him that irritating sympathetic smile again but said nothing about it.

"It has to be your decision," she said, "but I urge you both to make it quickly. While it's not a decision that can be rushed, equally it's not one that you have the luxury of time to make. You're already 20 weeks and three days' pregnant, Mrs Potter, and if you choose a termination, it becomes more traumatic the further into pregnancy you are when it's performed."

"We're not terminating," Harry said. "You said yourself that ten percent of babies with the condition survive to their first birthday. I'm quite good at defying odds."

"Harry…" Ginny said, and Harry looked at her. He was shocked to see that she was far from agreeing with him, and felt a shard of ice-cold dread pierce his chest. His earlier fear was confirmed: Ginny was indeed considering abortion as an option. He snatched his hand from her grip.

"Ten percent of babies who survive pregnancy live to their first birthdays, Mr Potter," the doctor corrected. "And those that do survive have the less severe mosaic or partial forms. Your baby has complete Trisomy 13, meaning it affects every cell in the body, and it is fatal. Most babies with this form will die in utero, or during birth. And can I please remind you that those who do survive birth have an extremely poor, limited quality of life, suffering with life-threatening conditions. There have been no documented cases of exceptions to this, anywhere in the world to date. If you decide to continue with the pregnancy, we can only offer palliative care to your baby upon birth."

"Take me home, Harry," Ginny said, standing up abruptly. She was in tears again, and her voice was hoarse and barely more than a whisper. "Side-along me from here. Please. I can't face Muggle transport, not today."

"Gin, you know the risks of Apparition- Splinching the baby-" Harry said as he stood to join her, but Ginny interrupted him, angry.

"It's a tiny risk, you know that!" she snapped, "and I hardly see what difference it's going to make now, if the baby's going to die anyway!" She burst into tears. "That was horrible. I shouldn't have said that, I'm sorry."

"Go home and discuss things with each other," Doctor Carmichael said. She handed them a series of leaflets. He caught the cover of the top one in Ginny's shaking hand- it was bright green and contained detailed facts about Patau's syndrome. 'Information for Parents', it said simply, in a plain white font, as if it was perfectly normal and routine to be told your child was going to die. "Do you have access to a telephone?" Harry nodded. There was a phone box on the corner of the square Grimmauld Place was situated. "Once you've made your decision, telephone me, and I'll arrange for you to come back in. And we'll take it from there, based on what you decide."

"Just one more thing before we go," Harry said. "In that leaflet you gave my wife about the amniocentesis test, it mentioned that you can tell the sex of the baby from it. Could you- I mean, if you know- are we having a boy or a girl?"

Doctor Carmichael looked in her notes for a second then took a deep breath.

"The baby is a boy," she replied, and it was all Harry could do to remain standing. He felt Ginny collapse against him.

"Thank you," he forced out. Then, obliging Ginny's easier wish, and he himself not wanting to spend a moment longer in the hospital, he took Ginny by the waist and turned on the spot, whisking them both away from the shocked doctor and Apparating into Grimmauld Place.

"What are we going to do?" Ginny said softly, once they'd made their way to the living room and collapsed onto the sofa. Ginny curled herself into a ball, her legs tucked under her, stroking her bump.

"What do you mean, 'do'?" Harry replied, struggling to keep his voice even. He was perched on the edge of the sofa, his head in his hands, trying to rein in the wrath that was surging through him. "We going to have the baby. And we're going to spend some time with him before he's taken from us. I want to meet my son, and I want him to meet us. A couple of hours is better than nothing at all."

"But, you heard what the doctor said," Ginny said. "Chances are he'll die before then. And then I'll have to give birth to a stillborn baby."

"So we're not even going to give him a chance to meet us, because he 'might' die anyway?" Harry knew he was yelling now, and that he was scaring Ginny, but he couldn't stop himself. The grief he'd tried to keep under lock and key in his mind for the past twenty-four hours had bubbled up to the surface now, and was threatening to burst out of every pore of his skin. "It's OK for you- he's _inside_ you, you can feel him kicking and moving, and you've bonded already, but I've had nothing!"

"So you want me to go through with a pregnancy and a traumatic birth that will only end in tragedy, because it's 'OK for me because he's in me'?" Ginny shouted back. "Can you even hear yourself, Harry? Do you not think that because I can feel him in me moving, that I can feel him alive, that this might actually be _harder_ for me than it is for you?"

Harry realised that his cheeks were wet now, and his vision was blurred. He removed his glasses and swiped his hand across his eyes.

"You sound like you've already made your mind up," he said, defeated.

"The more I think about it, the more I think it's for the best," Ginny said. "Expecting me to carry the baby for another four and a half months, put myself through labour, and all the while knowing he's going to die? I can't do it, Harry. I'm sorry, but I can't."

"And I get no fucking say at all, right? Because I'm only the father, I guess. It's biologically impossible for me to carry the baby, so I get no say at all in what happens to him and can go fuck myself, right?" Harry snapped.

"Don't swear at me, Harry. And of course you get a say," Ginny replied. "But don't turn round and tell me you want what's best for me and him, when you want to put us both through suffering just so you might get the chance to hold him in a few months' time!" At this she dissolved into tears once more. Harry added another emotion to the fury and heartache he was currently feeling: guilt. He edged closer to his wife and put his arms around her.

"Look, I didn't mean that. I'm just upset, OK? We can't fight about this, Ginny. We just can't," he said into her hair. "If there's ever a time we need to stand united, it's now."

"I don't want to abort, you know," Ginny said. "I want to have him and hold him, and maybe dress him and take some photos for us to remember him by. But I don't want him to be born and suffer either. It's a horrible situation and I don't know what to do. And we need to make the best choice for him. Not us. Surely that's what you want too?"

"What I want? What I want is to be excitedly preparing for the birth of my baby with my wife, not planning how he's going to die," Harry rasped. "What I want is to have what everyone else has, just for once. A family of my own. What I want is to not have to make this decision in the first place. What I want my son." At these words, he broke. All the anger, grief, and helplessness spilt out in a tsunami of emotion he couldn't hold back. He was vaguely aware of Ginny holding him as he wept, violent sobs racking his body.

He thought he was done with losing people he loved. It had been seven years since Voldemort's defeat, after all. Apparently he was wrong. And now that which was most precious to him was being snatched away. Whether they aborted or took the pregnancy to term, they were not going to be bringing a healthy baby home from hospital, and the realisation of this had just slammed into him as brutally as if he'd been hit by the Hogwarts Express. And he knew even then that he might not bounce back this time. The famous Potter Resilience had failed him at last. Fate had struck its cruellest blow, and in that moment, Harry didn't know how to recover from it.


	2. A Grey Cloud Descends

_Six months later…_

“I’m going out with the girls tonight,” Ginny called to Harry. She appeared in the doorway of the living room, and Harry scarcely spared her a glance. Ginny was dressed in a short, scarlet, figure-hugging dress which showed off her shapely legs and tiny waist. Her hair was tied back in an elegant knot and pinned with a comb decorated with rubies. Her face was made-up, and she looked extremely pretty. Harry saw none of this. 

“OK,” he replied automatically, having barely heard his wife. He was currently sitting on the sofa, in the same clothes he had worn the previous day (and, if he was being honest, slept in that night too), staring out the window at the grey sky. Storm clouds were rolling in, bathing the London skyline in a dark, dreary blanket of misery. Harry looked up at a particularly violent-looking raincloud, thick and almost black, as it began to shed teardrops of rain, hammering the windowpane until the glass could no longer be clearly seen through the water. He started slightly when he heard the front door to Grimmauld Place slam shut, vaguely registered the fact that his wife had gone out, then he continued his staring. 

It had been twenty-six weeks, four days, seven hours and- Harry checked his watch- eleven minutes since he and Ginny had lost their son. Harry absently fingered a locket which he wore around his neck, containing a single lock of auburn hair. It was all he had left of his baby boy. 

Matthew Osiris Potter had been born sleeping on the ninth of October, 2005, at just twenty-one weeks gestation. He had weighed ten ounces, and had looked absolutely perfect, like a miniature porcelain doll. He’d had a Cupid’s bow mouth, button nose, and a small amount of hair as red as any of his Weasley relatives. He’d also fit into Harry’s palm with room to spare, he was so tiny. Matthew Osiris was not the name Harry had intended to give his first-born son, the name he and Ginny had chosen for their child if it was a boy, back when they first learnt they were going to be parents. They had agreed upon the name James Sirius, named for both Harry’s father and godfather. He’d refused to use the name, when Ginny had tearfully asked him if he still wanted to call the baby that after his birth. James Potter was the name for a boy who was cheeky, full of life, and vivacious- a boy who was into everything and always getting into mischief, just as his grandfather had been. He was not cold and still and lying in a miniature grave next to his Uncle Fred with a posy of lilies resting upon it, born too early to even be officially recognised as ever having existed by either wizard or Muggle law.

Ginny had chosen Matthew. The name meant ‘gift’. Harry had chosen his middle name. Osiris was an Egyptian god, god of the afterlife. It was fitting, and Harry just hoped that Matthew was being looked after by his grandparents, uncle, and countless others, all of whom were spoiling him rotten, wherever they all were. That thought was the only thing that got him through the day, because the alternative, that he was in some eternal extinction, was simply unimaginable. 

Harry continued to stare unseeingly out of the window until the sky turned completely black. Then he stood, walked to the kitchen, and took a bottle of Firewhisky from the cupboard. He didn’t bother fetching himself a glass. 

Ginny arrived home again at around midnight, and found Harry completely inebriated and barely awake, slumped in the living room chair in the dark, the bottle of Ogden’s empty and laying on the floor on its side. She sighed and bit her lip as her eyes welled at the sight- a sight that was becoming far too familiar to her. The inevitable row could wait until morning: Ginny simply pulled the crocheted Afghan blanket from the back of the sofa and tucked it around her now snoring husband and went to bed. 

The morning brought a pounding headache and extreme nausea for Harry. He blindly made his way to the bathroom, retrieved a phial of Hangover Potion from the bathroom cabinet, and downed it in one gulp. Immediately he began to feel better- internally, at least. He looked in the mirror. He had lost a lot of weight in the last six months. His skin was gaunt and pale, his cheekbone prominent in his too-thin face. His eyes were bloodshot, with dark circles around them from weeks of poor sleep, and his chin and top lip were buried under nearly a week’s worth of stubble growth. He peeled his smelly and too-baggy clothes from his body and stepped into the shower, trying to wash away the last remnants of his hangover in addition to four days’ dirt.

He showered quickly and threw on the first set of clean clothes his hands touched from the closet in his bedroom. Ginny wasn’t in there. He went downstairs quickly and found her sitting at the kitchen table, drinking from a cup of coffee and reading the _Prophet_. 

“Rough night?” she said, not looking up. Harry slunk into the chair next to her.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” he said, pouring himself a coffee from the percolator. 

“That’s because you were passed out blind drunk on the sofa,” Ginny replied. She finally put down the paper and looked at him. Her eyes were hard, and narrowed, and- Harry noticed- full of pain. “Harry, this is the third time this week, and Merlin knows how many times this month. This has to stop.” 

“I don’t have a drinking problem,” Harry said. “It just helps me… forget for a while.”

“We’ve been over this,” Ginny snapped. “You need to deal with losing Matthew properly! Masking it with Firewhisky isn’t helping you. Harry, you’re not coping, you’re not eating, and you’re drinking far too much. You’re spiralling downhill and I’m worried that I’ll be burying you next, OK?”

“We can’t all pretend he never existed like you do,” Harry yelled, and Ginny paled. Tears began to fall silently down her cheeks but she said nothing. Instead she sat there, staring resolutely at her husband. “I ask you when we can try for another baby, and you won’t give me an answer. You refuse to even discuss it, Gin.” He took a large drink of his coffee. “You’re already back playing Quidditch, laughing and joking with your teammates like none of this nightmare ever happened.”

“I won’t try for a baby again until you’ve dealt with Matthew’s death properly. I’ve told you that,” Ginny said through her tears. “And don’t you ever say I pretend he never existed. Just because I’m not drowning in a bottle of alcohol every sodding night and am actually trying to get on with my life and be happy doesn’t mean I don’t think about him all the time, that I don’t cry for him too, but you never see that because you’re so wrapped up in your own little bubble of misery!”

“Bollocks,” he shouted. “You were back on a broomstick five weeks after he was born. You couldn’t fucking wait. In a way, losing him was the best thing for you, wasn’t it? Meant you didn’t have to give up your precious Quidditch career for a few months.”

Harry knew he’d gone too far. The cold, white fury on his wife’s face told him that, but- as with anything these days- he just felt a stoic detachment to the whole situation. He definitely felt Ginny’s anger, however, when she pulled her wand and sent a Stinging Hex at him. 

“Harry, I love you, but at the moment I don’t fucking well like you,” she said, her voice venomous. “Look at you, you’re a complete and utter mess. And you wonder why I won’t try for another baby? You’re grieving, and that is affecting the way you treat everyone, and we understand this, but you will not speak to me like that.” She stood from the table. “Get some help, Harry. Professional help. I mean it. Because I’m not prepared to stand back and watch you destroy yourself.” With that, she stormed from the kitchen, slamming the door so loudly it woke up the portrait of Walburga Black, who instantly began her shrieking. Harry just placed his head in his hands, then continued drinking his coffee. 

*

_Harry, mate,_

_Want to meet up this evening for a pint or two? I feel like I haven’t seen you properly in ages! I’m out on the Aitken murder case this afternoon, but how about we meet in the Leaky at six? I should be finished by then._

_Ron._

Harry took letter from the leg of the official Ministry owl, and watched as it took off and flew back through the open window, before opening it and reading. He didn’t bother replying. It wasn’t as if his friends expected him to by now. The last thing Harry felt like doing was going for a casual drink and having to talk about banal, unimportant shit for two hours with Ron. However it was almost preferable to going home. He scrunched the letter into a ball and tossed into the rubbish bin.

It had been eight days since their row, and he and Ginny were still barely speaking. Harry had again refused to get professional help, maintaining he was ‘dealing with it’, while Ginny continued to insist that he was on the path of self-destruction. Harry privately conceded that she was probably right, but couldn’t find it in himself to care. All he could see in his future was a large black raincloud, much like the one he saw out of the window of Grimmauld Place just the previous week, and as he hurtled nearer and nearer to the centre of it, he cared less and less about himself or anything around him. His work was suffering, his friendships were fragile, and his marriage was rocky, yet still Harry refused to sort himself out. Sometimes he thought he wouldn’t even care if he went to bed at night and never woke up again. 

Hermione had thrown around phrases such as ‘severe clinical depression’ and rattled off a list of treatments, none of which Harry was remotely interested in trying, Ron had patted him on the back awkwardly and told him it would be OK, and George had earned himself a punch in the face when he told Harry to ‘snap out of it, mate.’ He often caught his best friends and his wife talking in quiet voices while casting furtive glances in his direction, and knew they were discussing him. Harry simply pretended not to notice. Because if he acknowledged they were discussing him, he would have to acknowledge what they were talking about. And he wasn’t prepared to do that. 

At just after six that evening, Harry left the Ministry and Apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. His Apparition had been dicey recently; just a month ago he had Splinched the fingers off his left hand as he made the jump from The Burrow to Grimmauld Place. However, he made it to Diagon Alley intact with all his body parts intact and in the right place, and walked to the Leaky Cauldron entrance. 

Harry spotted Ron’s fiery hair, located in a booth at the far end of the bar. Ron smiled as Harry approached, but quickly sobered when the smile wasn’t returned or even acknowledged. 

“Thanks,” Harry murmured, as Ron pushed a pint of something dark and alcoholic towards him. He picked up the glass and drank deeply from it, as if its contents were sugar water. 

“Easy there, Harry,” Ron said. Harry glared at him, but put the glass down. Ron passed a packet of cheese and onion crisps to Harry, who took them, opened the bag, and picked at them disinterestedly. Ron, however, seemed satisfied with this. 

“So, mate, I, er, I wanted to talk to you about something,” Ron began, and Harry looked up. Ron was running a hand through his hair and biting on his bottom lip. He wasn’t catching Harry’s eye. It was a long time since Harry had seen Ron nervous about something, but then again, Harry reminded himself, it was a long time since he had actually spent any time with the man. If Harry was being truthful with himself, a part of him hated Ron at the moment. He and Hermione had a two-year-old daughter, Rose, to whom Harry and Ginny were godparents- a beautiful toddler fully of energy, with ringlets of auburn hair that flowed over her shoulders, and piercing chocolate-brown eyes and a cheeky smile. Harry hadn’t been able to bring himself to even look at a photo of the little girl since… since _it_ happened. So, in addition to being a failed father, crap friend, a crap husband, a crap Auror and a crap human being, he was also a crap godfather. He couldn’t even remember the last time he saw Teddy. He balled his left hand into a tight fist, relishing in the sharp shock of pain he felt in his palm as his too-long ragged fingernails cut into the flesh; in his right he grabbed the pint glass and drank deeply again.

“…haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you?” Ron said. Harry once again looked at Ron. He realised that Ron must have been talking for several minutes, all the while he was trapped once again inside his own head, alone with only his miserable thoughts. 

“Um, no,” he said. “I’m not really in the mood for chit chat tonight, Ron. Thanks for the pint. I’m going home.” He stood up and began to walk towards the Leaky’s fireplace.

“Harry!” Ron called after him. “Please, Harry! Don’t run off, OK?” Harry didn’t turn back around. Instead he took a pinch of Floo powder from the communal pot on the top of the fireplace, tossed it into the flames, and stepped inside. He called out, “Grimmauld Place!” and the last thing he saw before the fire swept him away was Ron’s confused and devastated face. 

Ron didn’t attempt to follow Harry home. Instead, Harry spent the evening alone, staring at some mindless television programme on the TV he had insisted they installed after their marriage in 2002. Ginny made a chilli con carne for dinner, and served Harry a large plateful, but he only picked at the food, barely tasting the few mouthfuls he did manage. Food simply held no appeal to him any longer, each fork load feeling- and tasting- like soil in his mouth. Even treacle tart, something which he had once enjoyed immensely, no longer tempted him. 

“Did Ron talk to you?” Ginny asked eventually. Harry looked up from his plate. 

“I think so. I wasn’t really listening,” he said. Ginny sighed. 

“Harry, he really wanted to speak with you this evening. You could have at least granted that to him.”

“I’m going to bed,” Harry replied. It was only eight in the evening, but being asleep was preferable to being awake. Besides, Harry was exhausted. He was always exhausted nowadays.

The best nights were those where he didn’t dream at all. These were rare, even if aided by Dreamless Sleep, which Harry had taken so frequently just after Matthew had been born that he had built up both a tolerance and resistance to it. When such rare nights occurred-usually aided by alcohol- Harry didn’t have to think or feel. He wasn’t aware of anything: of his sorrow, or his pain, or his guilt and anger at the world. He just existed in a shell of obliviousness. 

Other nights, Harry would dream of Matthew, alive and healthy. Usually Matthew was a baby in them, but sometimes he would be a toddler, or even an older boy. Harry had even dreamt once that he was on King’s Cross Station, seeing him off to school for his first day at Hogwarts. Those dreams were wonderful, until the moment Harry awoke and raw reality crashed down around him, and he felt like he had lost his son all over again. 

But worst by far were the nightmares: the gripping, terrifying dreams which plagued him most nights. The dreams were vivid, and extremely real to Harry when he was experiencing them. There was a recurring theme to them, even if the actual dream did vary somewhat: all involved a bloody, battered, tiny little body, and a voice which Harry knew to be Matthew’s telling him repeatedly that he had to be aborted because Harry didn’t deserve him, or deserve to be a father at all. Then Sirius, Remus, and his parents would each extend a hand to Matthew, and he would go with them willingly, without a second glance at Harry. Harry’s mother would glare at him, and his father would tell him that Harry was a major disappointment to him, and that he never worthy of Matthew in the first place. 

Harry would always wake from such dreams with a shout, his pillow and cheeks wet with tears. These were the only tears he ever allowed himself to shed. 

Initially Ginny had suffered as much as he had with grief, mingled with the distress the termination had caused, and they had sought comfort in one another. But as the weeks spread into months, and Ginny slowly began to recover, the nightmares that plagued Harry, accompanied by the guilt and the overwhelming knowledge that his son’s death was his fault, (because dishonest bastards like him didn’t deserve normal lives), ate further and further into him, polluting his body and mind. Because, deep down he knew he deserved every bit of this feeling. Because he was nothing but a dirty, lying, cheating arsehole, who was finally getting his comeuppance, and didn’t deserve to be happy. 

*

_“Oh, god,” Harry moaned, as the warm, wet, and oh-so-soft mouth engulfed him. “Merlin.” The resulting chuckle reverberated around him, pushing him dangerously close to the edge already. He threw his head back and panted as sensation, overwhelming, glorious, Technicolor sensation consumed him. Harry fisted handfuls of hair and tugged, unable to control himself as the pace against him intensified. He couldn’t help it: it was too good. “I’m… oh fuck, I’m going to…”_

_Harry never managed to finish his sentence. With a hoarse cry, his whole body stiffened and he came. It was a tidal wave crashing over him and Harry was struggling to stay afloat as he felt himself drown in pleasure. He shuddered and convulsed, and the hands wrapped in the hair must be pulling to the point of pain. Harry gasped for breath as he came down from the strength of his orgasm._

_It was never like this with Ginny._

_Harry pulled his lover to their feet and crushed his mouth against theirs, desperate, hungry. Passionate._

_“This is the last time we can do this,” Harry said breathlessly, as he buttoned his trousers back up. “It can’t happen again. I’m getting married in three months.”_

_Even has the words left his adulterous lips, he knew it was yet another lie._

*

Harry got up the following morning feeling completely unrested. It had been a Nightmare Night, and he’d woken around four after Matthew in his dream told him he hated him, unable to go back to sleep and had just laid in the dark, listening to Ginny’s soft, slow breathing as she slept. His shouts no longer woke her. Harry guessed she was used to it. 

As soon as the alarm went off at seven, he dressed in his Auror robes and made his way to the kitchen. He rubbed his eyes blearily as he waited for the kettle to boil on the stove. 

“Morning,” Ginny said, as she entered the kitchen. She was already dressed in her Harpies robes. Harry felt an unexpected and irrational bubble of anger at the sight of them, and looked away from his wife. He heard Ginny take a long, exasperated sigh.

“I’ll be done with training by midday,” she told him, fully aware he could hear her even if he was refusing to acknowledge her presence. “Hermione is coming over for lunch.” Harry made a non-committal grunting noise, and made the coffee. He drunk a cup quickly then, without so much as a goodbye to Ginny, turned on the spot and Apparated away to the Ministry. 

It was nearing lunchtime when Robards called him into his office. A tall, stout and imposing man, Harry didn’t like Robards anymore now than he had as a boy of sixteen when he’d accompanied Rufus Scrimgeour to The Burrow one Christmas. Harry had been in line to replace Robards as Head of the Auror Office when… _it_ happened. Now he was lucky if he could get through the day without screwing up. 

“Sit down, Potter,” Robards said. Harry sat. He had the feeling he was in for some sort of bollocking, but found he really couldn’t give a fuck. 

“Potter, can you please read over this report that you submitted yesterday?” Robards said, handing Harry a sheet of parchment containing an official write-up he recognised vaguely as one he had written the previous day. Harry took it from Robards and began to read. When he had finished, he put it down on the table and looked at his boss blandly. 

“Well?” Robards said. Harry continued to stare blandly. “Fine. Let me elaborate.” He picked up the parchment. “Potter, listen to this part of your report, please. ‘ _I believe that Jacobs has been practising such spells now for at least two months. My son would have been two months old now if he had lived, and been born when he should have been. We called him Matthew. Although Jacob is a nice name too. It’s a variant of James, which would have been Matthew’s name if he had been born alive.’_ ”

Harry continued to just stare. Robards sighed. 

“Look, Potter, I want you to go home. You’re no use to me at the moment.”

“You’re sacking me?” Harry asked. 

“No,” Robards replied. His voice was uncharacteristically sympathetic. “It’s an indefinite period of leave. Sort yourself out, Potter, then come back when you’re fit for duty. You have the potential to be an outstanding Auror, but at the moment you’re just not up to the level I need from my team.”

“Fine,” Harry said, standing abruptly. He walked away from Robards’ office to his own cubicle, yanked open the drawer to his desk, pulled out the few measly personal possessions he had in there and, without a backwards glance to either Robards or his colleagues, stormed out of the Auror Office. 

When he arrived home he could hear voices coming from the living room. It was Ginny, obviously home from practice, and Hermione. Harry remembered Ginny saying something about having lunch with her today. He hadn’t really been listening. He stood in the hallway, listening.

“…got to tell him!” Ginny was saying. “I understand Ron’s reluctance, but this isn’t fair on Harry either. He’s got a right to know.”

“I know,” Hermione said. “Ron tried to tell him yesterday in the pub, but Harry refused to listen and stormed out.” She sounded like she was close to tears. “You know he’s going to react badly. I mean, he’s refused to even been in the same room with Rose since… well, you know, and we’re both terrified this could be the straw that breaks the Hippogriff’s back.”

“I know,” Ginny said. She, too, sounded upset. “But he reacts badly to everything all the time at the moment.” She gave a shuddered gasp, as if trying to stifle a sob. “We can’t go on like this. Losing Matthew- it crushed me, too, but he acts like he was the only one affected by it. He desperately needs help, Hermione. The littlest thing sets him off, I have to watch what I say and do all the time, and I’m terrified he’s going to try and do something to himself.” Harry heard her burst into tears. “And if he thinks we hid the fact you’re pregnant again from him- Merlin, Hermione, I’m afraid of what he’ll do.”

Harry recoiled from shock. He felt completely numb- more numb than usual- as Ginny’s words sank in. Hermione was pregnant. She and Ron were going to be parents again. They got to have two babies, while he got none. In that moment, he hated everyone. He hated his friends for having what he wanted. He hated his wife for refusing to try for another child. But most of all he hated himself, for being the cause of all this in the first place. He walked into the living room. 

Both women turned abruptly to the door, and paled in equal measures. Hermione stared at him with wide eyes. 

“You’re pregnant again then,” Harry said. Hermione nodded. 

“Eighteen weeks,” she said. “Harry, we tried to tell you.”

“I know. I heard,” Harry replied. He could feel himself shaking. He looked at Ginny, whose face was tear-stained. “I can’t deal with this right now.” He turned on the spot and Disapparated, leaving Hermione and Ginny alone. 

“Shit,” Ginny said. She put her head in her hands. “I didn’t know he was there.”

“I’ll go and find him,” Hermione said. “Please, Ginny. Let me speak to him, OK. I think I know where he is.” She threw a pinch of Floo powder into the fireplace, stepped in, called, “The Burrow!” and disappeared. 

Harry landed at the small cemetery in Ottery St Catchpole, and immediately made his way over to the tiny grave which held his son. Harry sank to his knees and brushed the dirt from the headstone, which simply held Matthew’s name and date of birth. He hadn’t wanted a fancy inscription, full of lying words which meant nothing.

The lilies on the grave were wilting. Harry Vanished them quickly and conjured a new posy of fresh flowers. He pulled up a few weeds from the graveside by hand, leaving his hands filthy and scratched. He couldn’t care less. 

“I’m so sorry,” Harry said to the grave. It was all he ever said here. There was nothing else to say.

“Harry.” 

Harry refused to turn round at the sound of Hermione’s voice, and gritted his teeth together. Couldn’t she for once not stick her fucking nose in?

“I’ve got nothing to say, Hermione,” Harry said. “Leave me alone.”

“Well, I have a few things to say to you, but first of all, did you know you’re bleeding?” she replied. Harry felt her hand rest softly on his arm. “Oh, Harry,” she said. “Look.”

Harry glanced down towards where she was indicating and realised she was right. There was a large gash in his right calf. He’d Splinched himself again, and hadn’t even realised. He didn’t object as Hermione knitted the skin back together with her wand. 

“Thanks,” he muttered, once she was done. “Look, Hermione, I’m not interested in your apology, alright, so you can save your breath.” Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Apologise? What on earth do I have to apologise for, Harry? For living my life?! Oh, no. I’m not here to offer you an apology. I’m here to tell you that you’re behaving like a selfish, wallowing, self-pitying prat, and that I’ve had enough. If anyone is owed an apology, it’s us from you, not the other way around. That’s what I have to say to you.”

Harry did look up then. Hermione’s lips were pressed firmly together and she was glaring at him. 

“I’m sick of tiptoeing on eggshells around you, Harry,” she said. “Everyone is treating you like an Erumpent horn that is about to explode at any minute, and I’ve had enough. Ginny is worried you’re suicidal, Ron’s actually _scared_ to talk to you- did you know that?- and frankly, Harry, you’re falling so deep into depression that I’m frightened you’ll never be able to climb out of it. This stops. Now.”

“I’m not suicidal,” Harry said. Hermione took his hand and smiled sadly. 

“Tell me, Harry. If Voldemort showed up here right now, would you fight him? If he sent you back to King’s Cross, or wherever it was he sent you when he cast the Killing Curse at you in the Forbidden Forest, would you choose to come back this time?”

Harry thought for a minute before answering. “No,” he conceded eventually. “No, I wouldn’t.”

“Then you’re not you anymore,” Hermione said, and Harry could hear her voice crack. “The Harry Potter I knew would fight until he took his dying breath.”

“I don’t want to feel like this,” Harry said. “It’s just I… I…”

“You don’t deserve to feel like this, Harry,” Hermione said knowingly. “What happened with Matthew- this isn’t some punishment for the past.”

Harry felt his eyes fill up, but refused to let the tears fall. Instead he squeezed the hand that was still in his tightly, and gazed at his son’s grave.

Harry hadn’t meant to confide his affair to Hermione. He had blurted it all out in a drunken rambling about two weeks before his wedding to Ginny, when he’d finally ended the affair for good. To his immense relief she hadn’t lectured him. She’d simply held him and let him talk, not judging him. She was the only person he was close to who knew the full story. Well, she and… he wasn’t going to think about _them_ right now. 

“Harry, please see someone. A mind Healer, or a counsellor, or something,” Hermione continued. “I’ve been through too much with you, survived too much, to see this destroy you.”

Harry realised his cheeks were wet. He bit his lip and closed his eyes, then he was engulfed in Hermione’s warm embrace. 

“Please,” she whispered into his ear. 

“OK,” Harry said, clinging to Hermione, the only person in his life who had always been there for him, fighting his corner. Even more so than Ron, or even Ginny. She had never once let him down, ever, in fourteen years of friendship. “OK. I’ll try.”

Hermione wiped Harry’s eyes with her thumbs and kissed the top of his head. 

“Good,” she said simply. “Let’s get you back to The Burrow, and we’ll Floo to Grimmauld Place together.”

“Oh yeah, you can’t Apparate, can you,” Harry said. “I’m going to really struggle with that, you know.”

“I do know,” Hermione said simply. “Come on.”

Together they walked across the village to the Weasley residence.

*

Ron was waiting at Grimmauld Place when Harry and Hermione arrived. He and Ginny both looked worried. 

“Harry, mate,” Ron began, but Harry held up a hand. 

“I want to talk to Ginny,” he said. Hermione squeezed Harry’s hand one final time then said her goodbyes, whispering something that sounded like ‘not now’ to Ron, and pulling him back into the fireplace. As soon as they’d disappeared, Ginny shut down the Floo connection. 

“I talked to Hermione,” Harry said slowly. Ginny looked cautiously at him. 

“And?”

“And I’ll speak to someone. If you want me to,” Harry said. 

A smile- a true smile- spread across Ginny’s face, and she threw her arms around him, holding tightly. Harry held her back automatically. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d embraced. 

“Thank you,” she said.

*

Ginny had arranged Harry’s appointment with a grief counsellor at St Mungo’s. It was a week since Hermione had talked to him in the cemetery at Ottery St Catchpole, and now here he was, seven days later, sat in the reception area of the counselling clinic, waiting for his turn but certain that it wasn’t going to do any good. The door opened and a woman perhaps in her early forties came out, her face pale and her eyes rimmed red. Harry stared at her. He would rather die than break down before the counsellor. 

“You may enter now, Mr Potter,” said the receptionist. Harry stood, crossed the small distance to the wooden door and placed a hand of the handle. With a final sigh, he pushed it open and stepped inside. 

What he saw inside the small, neat room very nearly made him reach for the door and run straight back out. Because sat at the desk was a figure he hadn’t seen for years, since the end of the war, and would have happily never seen again under any circumstances, let alone one where he was at his most vulnerable. For the grief counsellor was Draco fucking Malfoy. 

“Hello, Potter,” Malfoy drawled. “Please do take a seat, won’t you.”


	3. The First Step

If it hadn’t been such a foreign sensation to him, Harry was quite sure he would have laughed. Here he was, ready to talk about the utter joke his life had become, and the Universe had provided Draco Malfoy as its punch line. Harry thought that he must have been a complete bastard in a previous life to deserve this. Or, as he remembered his actions from just after the war until a few weeks before his wedding, maybe he was just one in this life. He ran his hands over his face, as if momentarily obscuring his vision would mean that Malfoy would disappear. He didn’t, of course. 

“Well, Potter, are you going to sit down, or not?” Malfoy said, gesturing with his hands the comfortable-looking chair which was obviously meant for his patients. Harry ignored him, and continued to stand in the doorway, staring. 

“What are you doing here, Malfoy?” he managed eventually. That familiar, smug smirk that Harry just wanted to hex off his face sneered at him. Malfoy pointed to a square of parchment, neatly framed in a dark wood, which adorned the wall above his impeccably neat desk.

“I believe that says I am a trained therapist, specialising in grief counselling,” Malfoy drawled. “I work here, Potter. Was that not obvious?”

This was a complete waste of time. Voldemort would resurrect and perform ‘The Dance of the Dying Swan’ in a shocking pink tutu before Harry would talk to Malfoy.

“How did a bastard like you end up in a career which requires you to have a shred of human decency?” he said, one hand on the door handle. A flicker of pure irritation flashed across Malfoy’s face, but he quickly schooled it into one of indifference. 

“I happen to be very good at what I do,” he replied coolly. “But please feel free to leave, Potter. It’s no skin off my nose. You’ve still paid for the full session, after all.”

Harry continued to stare. Malfoy sighed. 

“Look. Come and sit down, and we’ll begin our session.” He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a roll of parchment, bottle of ink, and a quill. “I need to get some background information from you before we can start- the type of grief you’re dealing with, for example, and then we-”

“You actually think I’m prepared to discuss anything about my private life with you?” Harry yelled, suddenly fuelled by a burning anger. “No way, Malfoy.” He finally turned the door handle, and all but fell through the door, back into the waiting room. He slammed the door shut behind him then stormed off, ignoring the receptionist calling after him, or the waiting man who was clearly astounded to see the famous Harry Potter emerging from a grief counselling session looking murderous. 

Harry couldn’t face returning home and dealing with Ginny just yet, however, so he found the hospital lift and pressed the button for the fifth floor. He emerged from the lift into a quaint and quiet little tearoom, not totally unlike Madam Puddifoot’s teashop in Hogsmeade. He certainly wasn’t hungry, and not particularly thirsty, but a cup of tea would give his hands something to do other than throttle Malfoy, so he bought a cup and sat in an armchair next to a large window which overlooked Muggle London below. He didn’t know where his boiling anger towards Malfoy had sprung from, Harry thought, as he sipped his too-hot tea and watched the Muggles below bustling around, not knowing that they were within feet of a huge building full of witches and wizards and magic. It wasn’t as if he still even hated the git; Harry had barely given a thought to Malfoy at all since he returned his wand and spoke for him and his mother during the Death Eater trials, in the summer following Voldemort’s defeat. 

A woman came into the tearoom. She sat at a table near to Harry’s, and with a horrible lurch of the stomach, Harry realised she was cradling a baby. The infant couldn’t have been more than two or three months old; about the same age that Matthew would have been now. Harry felt his jaw clench as he swallowed uncomfortably, forcing himself to stare out at the mundane lives of the Muggles below him. 

The baby began to fuss then, and the woman unbuttoned her blouse and began to nurse him. Harry saw this accidentally out of the corner of his eye, but then found he couldn’t pull his gaze away once he’d noticed it. The baby had a huge mop of red hair. The woman held the baby’s hand and rocked him as she nursed, all the time singing old wizarding nursery rhymes softly to the child. It was probably exactly how Ginny would have looked, nursing their son. Harry was suddenly hit with a jolt of sadness that was making him feel physically sick; he needed to get out of here, now, before he completely lost it in the middle of a bloody café, but he found himself unable to tear himself away. 

The woman looked up at Harry in that moment, and noticed him staring. She shot him a look of pure loathing, mouthed, ‘Pervert!’ at him, and pulled her cardigan closer around her baby and bosom, clearly thinking that Harry was some disgusting voyeuristic deviant trying to stare at her chest. Abandoning his barely touched tea, Harry suddenly sound his feet, and darted from the tearoom, just making it to the toilet in time to retch and bring up the paltry breakfast he’d eaten. He wiped his mouth on a wad of toilet paper, then realised he was shaking all over. He couldn’t go on like this. He felt a lump form in his throat and his eyes begin to burn. Before he even realised where he was going or what he was doing, he’d re-entered the lift, emerged on the floor Malfoy worked, and barged into the room, ignoring the protesting receptionist and pushing past her. Malfoy looked up from his desk, surprised, at the sudden intrusion. 

“Merlin, you look terrible,” he said, waving the worried receptionist away. “Close the door, Potter. You still have thirty minutes of your session left.”

“I don’t know why I’m here,” Harry croaked out, as the door clicked shut. “I still don’t want to talk about this. To you, especially.” But then, everything suddenly crashed down on his head, and before he could stop himself, he dropped to his knees, buried his face in his hands, and broke down. 

Malfoy let him. He didn’t attempt to comfort Harry, or even come nearer to him for which Harry was grateful, as Harry was already going to have to bump this right to the top of the list of the Top Ten Humiliating Moments of Harry Potter’s Life, without having to add being hugged by a Death Eater to that list. Harry didn’t know how or why this breakdown had happened now, but all he knew was he was not in control of himself right now. 

He didn’t know how long it took to cry himself out. Probably most of the remaining session, Harry would guess. Malfoy still didn’t say anything; he simply handed him a box of tissues, then gestured to the chair he’d asked Harry to sit in when Harry had entered the room for the first time. 

“I have a free hour after your session, if you’d like to carry over,” Malfoy said. He seemed utterly unfazed at Harry’s meltdown. His confusion to this must have shown, because Malfoy added, “Believe it or not, Potter, I’ve not spent the last seven years since we last saw one another wishing I could see you at your most vulnerable and desiring for life to screw you over. I, as you have, I should imagine, have moved on past school and entered into adulthood. And you’re not by the far the first person to cry in my office.” He opened his drawer again and pulled out a small phial containing a blood red potion and pushed it towards Harry, who eyed it suspiciously. 

“It’s a maximum strength Calming Syrup,” Malfoy explained. “Brewed by myself, and it is more effective than a simple Calming Draught. It will not alter your mind in any way, but it will sufficiently calm your nerves to allow you to talk. Free of charge, and optional, but I do strongly suggest you take it.”

It would be a cold day in Hell before Harry willingly and knowingly drank a potion that Malfoy had brewed, just on Malfoy’s say-so. He looked at Malfoy and cocked an eyebrow. Malfoy let out a blow of air in frustration. 

“Fine. Look, Potter, you are protected in here. Nothing we discuss is disclosed to anyone else, either verbally or in writing. Anything I prescribe- including this potion- are for your own wellbeing. If I am to help you at all, you will need to work with me, not against me. This is a safe, confidential session, and I offer clients the chance to make the Unbreakable Vow with me to guarantee this. And this-” Malfoy indicated himself and Harry with a gesture of his hand “- will not work if you cannot trust me even one single iota.” 

Why Malfoy thought Harry had any reason to trust him at all was beyond him, but Harry found himself reaching for the potion anyway. Why not, he thought. Nothing could make him feel worse. He picked up the phial, toasted Malfoy in a mocking manner, and threw it back. 

The potion was surprisingly warm, and reminded Harry of a mug of hot chocolate. It was sweet and tasted of strawberries, and a potion ingredient that may been lavender. He was shocked to realise that he did feel significantly calmer almost instantly. Malfoy always had been a good potioneer. 

“I still can’t believe that you took counselling up as a career, of all things,” Harry said. “Not very you, is it?”

The impassive expression on Malfoy’s face darkened. 

“Potter, I will not keep reiterating the merits of my credentials with you. You need help, and I’m qualified to give it. I can help you. Why did you even come to this session, if you weren’t prepared to speak with me?”

“I meant, you bloody git, that I always thought you’d go into something to do with Potions,” Harry snapped. “And just how, exactly, should I have known you were the bloody counsellor? I’m not a Seer, you know.”

“I assumed your wife would have told you, given I spoke with her personally when she made the appointment,” Malfoy said. 

That threw Harry. He was sure Ginny hadn’t mentioned the name of the counsellor to him. But then again, Harry had to admit that he’d not paid close attention to his wife recently. No, he thought, he definitely would have noticed if she had told him the session was with Malfoy. 

“Well, she didn’t,” he said quietly. He’d think about Ginny later.

Malfoy’s expression morphed back into one of neutrality. He picked up his quill and dipped it into the ink well on his desk. “Are you ready to tell me why you’re here?” he said gently.

“Not especially,” he said. “But I’ve promised Ginny I would at least give this a go.”

“Then let’s make the Unbreakable Vow,” Malfoy said. He walked to the door, opened it, and calmly spoke to his receptionist. She entered the room. 

“This is Stephanie. She will be our Bonder,” Malfoy explained. “And I should tell you now that she has also made an Unbreakable Vow, with me, not to reveal anything about any of my patients to anyone.” He extended his hand to Harry. “Ready?”

Two minutes later, the magic of the Vow had sealed itself, and Stephanie left the room. Malfoy sat back at his desk, and gestured for Harry to retake his seat, which he did so. He still didn’t want to talk about any of this, but the image of Hermione and Ron, and even Ginny, their eyes wide and frightened at Harry’s behaviour swam to the surface. And it wasn’t as if Malfoy could tell anyone anything now. He took a deep breath. 

“We lost our baby son,” Harry choked out, feeling the tears welling again, but also realising that Malfoy’s potion was allowing him to finally say the words which had stuck in his throat for months. “He was stillborn, back in October. And I’m not dealing with it at all.”

Malfoy stopped writing then, and looked up. 

“You and your wife lost a pregnancy?” he said. “Now you say that, I remember reading something about Mrs Potter having a miscarriage. It was in the _Prophet_.”

“It wasn’t a miscarriage,” Harry said, feeling his cheeks wet again, as his hand unconsciously grabbed the locket around his neck containing Matthew’s lock of hair. “Ginny was about halfway through the pregnancy, and we terminated. We had a routine check-up here at St Mungo’s, and it all but destroyed my world.”

He explained about the tests and the diagnosis of Patau’s, the decision to terminate, and how he’d felt dead inside ever since. He could see an expression he’d never seen on Malfoy’s face before: sympathy. He didn’t know how he felt about that.

“Do you know, he was born too early to even receive a birth certificate?” Harry croaked. “Either in the wizard or Muggle world. Only infants born after twenty-four weeks get a birth or death certificate, and Matthew was born at twenty-one weeks. But to me, and Ginny, he was our son, a little person with red lips and hair like his mum’s, who I cradled in my arms. The official record will show no trace of my son as having ever existed at all, and that really, really fucking hurts.” He swiped his palms over his eyes. “It’s like I have a Dementor inside my head, but no Patronus will help me. I’ve shut everyone out. My wife, my friends, even my two godchildren. I’ve been told not to return to work until I’m better. I resent Ginny for getting her life back together and daring to be happy. Ron and Hermione were even frightened to tell me they were expecting another baby,” he said. “My best friends, the two people I’ve been through more with than anyone else, and they couldn’t talk to me. I owe it to them to sort myself out, even if I don’t deserve to feel happy again.” 

Harry hadn’t meant for that to come out, and immediately gave himself a huge mental slap. Bloody potion had loosened his tongue. However, to his relief, Malfoy’s face didn’t change at all; indeed, he looked as if this was exactly what he had expected to hear. 

“We’ll look at why you think that in another session,” Malfoy said, jotting a few notes onto his parchment with his quill. “If there is, indeed, to be another session?” Harry nodded numbly. “OK. Look, Potter, it’s obvious that there is some severe clinical depression here. If all you want is a bunch of antidepressant potions and a few mind charms to make all the pain miraculously stop, I’m the wrong person to help you. I’m a counsellor, not a Healer, and cannot prescribe such strong medication.” He paused then, and Harry was certain that Malfoy was watching his reaction to see if this was indeed all he was after. Apparently satisfied, he continued. “However, those things only ever temporarily mask a problem anyway, they don’t treat it. To really recover you need to work through the grief, and it will take time. 

“There are five stages of grief,” he said, “denial, anger, bargaining, depression, then acceptance. We all move throughout the stages differently, and at different speeds. I expect, from what you’ve told me, your wife has reached stage five, and has accepted Matthew’s death. This doesn’t mean she doesn’t love him dearly, or doesn’t think about him all the time, but it does mean she’s trying to move on with her life. You are very much deeply within the fourth stage: depression. Your emotions, the despair, the guilt, the feeling that you deserve this- they’re all prime examples of a person suffering in the fourth stage. But you can come through this. I promise you.”

He stood then, and walked to his Potions cabinet. He retrieved seven small phials containing an amber liquid. Malfoy pushed them towards Harry, and he pocketed them. 

“This is a special potion to help you get the sleep you’re obviously lacking,” he explained. “It’s not Dreamless Sleep, nor is it a Sleeping Draught. It just aids natural sleep, which is what our bodies need. It will control your dreams and prevent nightmares. An exhausted mind plagued with nightmares every night cannot begin to heal. It’s not addictive and you cannot overdose on it, but one phial will be sufficient per night.” He glanced to the clock on the wall. “I have another patient in five minutes. Here’s what I want you to do for next week. I want you to take the sleeping potions, one each night just before you go to bed. I want you to think about why you feel guilty, as we’ll be discussing that next time. And please accept that there is no quick fix. This will take time, Potter.” He held out his hand, which Harry found himself taking, wondering just how many snowballs were currently prevailing in Hell. 

He stood and walked Harry to the door, reaching out for the door handle. Harry stopped him. 

“Just one thing,” he said. “I’m just genuinely interested. Why did you become a grief counsellor?”

He wasn’t actually expecting Malfoy to answer, so was surprised when he did. 

“My wife died,” he said quietly. “Four years ago. And I didn’t deal with it very well. After I had help myself, I decided to try and help others. Do some actual good with my life for once.”

Harry felt his mouth fall open in surprise. Malfoy had lost his wife? He had been made a widower at just twenty-one?

“How did she die?” he asked, before he could stop himself. Malfoy’s eyebrow raised. 

“I, as the counsellor, ask the questions in here, Potter,” he said, refusing to answer Harry directly. This time he did open the door. “I shall see you next week.”

“Yeah, next week,” Harry replied, and he made his way out of the office and down the corridor, towards the lifts. As he pushed the button for the ground floor, his mind went back over and over the words Malfoy had said to him. Because how was Harry supposed to explain that he had plenty of reasons to feel guilty, and not one of them was just in his head?

                                                                                               

*

_Harry’s entire body was thrumming with arousal and glistening with a fine film of sweat as he kissed his lover deeply, their tongues entwined and battling one another. His hands reached up and tangled in his lover’s hair as he began to thrust, eliciting a delighted gasp of pleasure from them._

_“God,” Harry rasped. His hands left his lover’s hair and stroked his lover’s arms, starting at the shoulder and ending up at their fingers, which he laced with his own. He pressed forward: stronger, deeper, desperate, until the fingers grasping his own squeezed impossibly tight and Harry felt their orgasm tear through them. It was enough to push him over the edge too and he felt his entire body tense as the ember in his stomach suddenly flamed, and white-hot delicious heat and joy flooded him. Panting, he pulled out of his lover, and rolled next to them, pulling them close to his body._

_“I’m glad my first time was with you,” he whispered, his breathing still laboured. “That was amazing.” His lover grinned and captured Harry’s mouth once more in a bruising kiss._

_“I don’t know if my sister would share that same sentiment,” they replied with a small, humourless laugh. “I’m quite sure she was expecting to be your first.”_

_“Please, don’t talk about Ginny right now,” Harry said. “I just want to lie here with you and think about us.” He reached up with a hand, which he realised was still trembling, and ran it through his lover’s fiery hair, brushing a damp strand of it out of his eyes. “I love you.”_

_After another passionate kiss, which became extremely heated and resulted in them both coming for a second time, his lover gently nipped Harry’s lip for one last time and replied, “I love you too.”_

                                                                                               

*

Harry didn’t feel like there was any rush to return home, especially when he was feeling rather angry at Ginny for not telling him who the counsellor was. Given his and Malfoy’s history, the scene in Malfoy’s office could have been extremely ugly. He decided to walk home, despite the rain, and set off north, away from the hustle and bustle of central London and headed for Islington. 

He was drenched by the time he arrived home: his hair was matted to his head, the charm he’d placed on his glasses to repel water had given up several times, and his blue denim jeans were clinging soggily to his legs, but the walk had actually cleared his head somewhat. He fumbled in the pocket of his jacket for his key, and unlocked the door. Three bodies instantly appeared in the hallway, all looking extremely anxious. 

“Harry!” Ginny exclaimed. “I was expecting you back over two hours ago!”

“I wasn’t aware I was on a timetable,” Harry replied coolly. He sighed. “I stayed for an additional session, then decided to walk home.” He noticed Ginny’s face was still white and anxious, not relieved, and he knew exactly what was agitating her. Malfoy. 

“Ron, Hermione, I need to talk with my wife alone,” he said. Hermione looked like she was dying to ask about fifty questions, but Ron placed a hand on her shoulder to stop her, and the pair quickly disappeared through the fireplace. Harry drew his wand, cast a series of spells at it to close the Floo connection, then turned to Ginny. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he snarled. Ginny paled further and swallowed anxiously, but replied, “Tell you what?”

“Don’t play this game with me. You know bloody well what,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me that the person you’d made an appointment with, the person you expect me to open my heart to and trust, the person that _you_ sent me to completely unaware, was Draco fucking Malfoy?”

“You needed to see someone!” Ginny yelled back defiantly. Harry snorted. 

“See someone, yes, but he’s not the only bloody counsellor in the world you know,” he said. “So, answer me again, why Draco Malfoy?”

Ginny breathed deeply and sank into the armchair she was standing next to, burying her face in her hands for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was a forced calm. 

“Because, Harry, I know that if there was one person in the world you couldn’t ignore, if there was one person who would get your attention, it would be him.”

Harry stared at her. He’d gone very still. 

“Look at you, Harry,” Ginny continued, and Harry could hear a slight wobble in her voice now. “For months you’ve barely said a word. You come back from one session with Malfoy, and you’re more alive, more animated than you’ve been in a long time. He always did manage to get under your skin like no one else could, and I knew if anyone could help you, who could get through to your head, he could.” Her face softened. “And if I had told you who the counsellor was, there was no way you would have gone, was there?” Harry had to concede that this was absolutely true. “Harry, I genuinely didn’t know it was going to be him when I first contacted St Mungo’s. And I almost did say no. But then I got thinking. I am sorry you got a massive shock, but I’m not sorry I did it.” She paused, looking at him tentatively. “So, how was the session?”

“Not as bad as I thought it was going to be,” Harry admitted. “I did storm out as soon as I realised who it was with-” Ginny gasped “-but I returned after a bit and I, er, talked. And I’m going to keep going back.”

Ginny’s face cracked into a genuine smile. She stood from the sofa and pulled Harry into a hug. 

“Thank you,” she said. “I just want my Harry back.” Harry hugged her back automatically, swallowing down the bubble of guilt that was rising up in his throat. 

                                                                                               

*

If someone had told Harry twenty-four hours ago that by this time tonight he would be voluntarily drinking a potion that Draco Malfoy had brewed, he’d have hexed them on the spot. He still wasn’t sure it was that great of an idea, but Harry knew the Unbreakable Vow prevented Malfoy from actually poisoning or otherwise harming Harry. Besides, he was so desperate for sleep, to just not have _that_ nightmare, the one where Matthew comes to him and tells Harry that this is all his fault, that it’s Harry’s fault he died, that Harry didn’t much care anyway. He picked up one of the phials that was on his bedside table, uncorked it, and downed it. 

Like the Calming Syrup Malfoy had given him earlier that day, the potion was deliciously warm as it slipped down Harry’s throat, and had a sweet, almost coconut taste to it. Harry slipped into bed, pounded his pillows into a comfortable position, took off his glasses and closed his eyes. He fell asleep before Ginny came up to bed, an hour later, and for the first time in six months he had managed to drift off without the harrowing images of Matthew’s death, or his funeral, or the knowledge that he had lost his son because he was a selfish bastard at the forefront of his mind. 

If, as Harry had said to Malfoy, there was a Dementor of sorts in Harry’s head, then the potion Malfoy had given him was a Patronus. For eight hours straight, the potion helped Harry recall his happiest, most treasured memories as he slept, memories which had been locked away for weeks upon weeks, and kept the nightmares and despair out of Harry’s head. Winning the Quidditch Cup at Hogwarts, qualifying from Auror training, even simple roast dinners at The Burrow on a Sunday afternoon while Arthur Weasley asked Harry to explain some mundane Muggle thing to him. 

It was the potion keeping the dreams at bay, but in a few hours’ time, when Harry would wake, he would feel that he’d had a good night’s sleep for the first time in months. His mind had rested, had been given some desperately-needed time to switch off. And, had Harry been conscious and aware, he’d have been incredibly shocked to see his sleeping self even smile at the memories his subconscious was reliving. 

Malfoy had said it was going to take a long time to recover, and indeed it would, but Harry had finally made the first step in the right direction.


	4. Building Bridges

If Harry was completely honest with himself, he spent the next seven days before his counselling session with Malfoy half expecting the whole sorry story to appear in the _Prophet;_ despite the Unbreakable Vow, Harry had remained convinced that Malfoy, Slytherin personified that he had been, would have deliberately found a way around it and blabbed all his secrets. So he was somewhat surprised when Wednesday came again without a sniff about him in the papers. 

At exactly two o’clock, Malfoy’s receptionist waved Harry in and, just as he had done so exactly a week before, Harry pushed open the heavy wooden door, although this time prepared to see Malfoy sitting behind the desk. He closed the door behind him.

“Not going to run away this time?” Malfoy said, in lieu of actual greeting. Harry simply shook his head. Malfoy gave him a small smile and indicated the armchair next to his desk. 

“How have you been this week?” Malfoy asked, taking a quill and parchment from his desk drawer.

“I still feel like shit,” Harry replied honestly. “But I’ve slept well. I’ve not had the nightmares, and I’m waking up in the mornings without this horrible cloud of despair over me caused by the dreams. So, um, I guess I’m doing better?” He said this as a question, unsure whether this really was true.

“It’s definitely a step in the right direction,” Malfoy agreed. “Although there’s obviously still a long way to go. I shall keep you on the potions for the foreseeable future. They’re obviously helping you.”

He scribbled a few notes on his parchment, then put down his quill. 

“Last session I told you about the five stages of grief,” he said calmly. “And I told you how you were stuck in stage four, which is depression. Included in this is guilt, and from what you told me in our first session together, guilt is playing a major part of why you cannot move onto the final stage of acceptance, as your wife has. I also made it clear that until you can work past this guilt and come to terms with what is causing you to feel it, you cannot recover. So, are you ready to discuss it?”

“No,” Harry said. “I… I can’t.”

“Potter, there is a reason why you feel guilty. The decision to terminate was made jointly with Ginevra, wasn’t it? You made what you believed to be the best decision for your son, the one that would spare him the most suffering. Yet she does not feel guilty about this, and you do.” _Oh_ , Harry thought. Malfoy was assuming Harry felt guilty about the abortion. A natural assumption, he supposed. He had to make a decision. Let Malfoy think that and take the easy way out, or finally be honest. He chose the latter.

“It wasn’t that,” Harry replied. “I- I do feel guilty about that too, I mean, but I know deep down we made the right choice for him then, but it was all my fault he was like that in the first place!”

Bugger. He should have kept his mouth shut and let Malfoy form his own conclusions. Malfoy was staring at him curiously now, his eyes never once leaving Harry’s face. 

“Continue,” Malfoy said simply. He picked up his quill again. Harry desperately wanted to say nothing, to keep it all bottled up inside, because saying it aloud was just too awful, but he’d promised Ginny and his friends he’d try and get better, to do what it took to recover. He took a deep breath.

“I did something,” he said quietly, not quite meeting Malfoy’s eye. “Something horrible, that makes me a total bastard. And this whole thing- Matthew’s condition, then losing him, the nightmares plaguing me where he tells me I caused all his suffering- it’s my punishment. I just simply didn’t deserve to be his daddy.” He looked up and found Malfoy was surveying him with an extremely pensive expression on his face. He expected Malfoy to ask him what he’d done, and was surprised when he didn’t.

“Tell me, Potter,” Malfoy said, “if a woman finds out that her husband wants a divorce, and is so upset she storms off, steals your car and dives down the motorway at over a hundred miles an hour before losing control of the car and smashing it into the central reservation of the M4, killing her instantly, is her death to be blamed on the husband who had just ended her marriage because he’d made her distressed?”

Harry had no idea where Malfoy was going with this, and was a little surprised he even knew what a central reservation or the M4 was, but answered anyway. 

“No. It… it was an accident. Of course it wasn’t his fault,” he replied. Malfoy shot him a sad smile. 

“It took me a long time to accept that,” he said, and Harry felt his eyes widen. “I was certain that it was my fault Astoria died. I was the one who’d just broken her heart by just ending our marriage, so the crash was obviously my fault too, and therefore so was her death.” He forced Harry to make eye contact with him then. “I was positive that I had killed my wife, and left our son, who was only a baby at the time, motherless because of what I had done. And, much like you, the guilt almost destroyed me. But you cannot let it win, Potter. You just can’t.”

Harry was absolutely gobsmacked. Never had he thought he would hear Draco Malfoy lay his heart on the table so candidly, speak so openly. And overwhelming realisation slammed into him: Malfoy knew how he felt. He wasn’t just trying to understand because he had a fancy qualification in counselling, or be empathetic, but was speaking from experience. He understood the gnawing, gut-wrenching agony of guilt, because he’d suffered it too. And Malfoy had survived it. He felt a wave of unidentifiable emotion wash over him at this revelation.

“You didn’t kill her,” he almost whispered. 

“I know that now,” Malfoy said, “but believe me when I say that I didn’t, for an extremely long time. Look, Potter, I told you this because I need you to see something here. Guilt is a normal part of grief, even when it’s completely irrational, but the whole time you hold on to it, you cannot move forwards. I will have to live with the fact that the only reason Astoria was on that motorway in the first place was because of me for the rest of my life, and that will always stay with me, but hindsight can be both a wonderful and devastating thing. I couldn’t possibly have foreseen what was going to happen. And it’s the same with you, Potter. No matter what it is you did, that you think is so terrible, you did not cause the genetic fluke which caused your son’s problems, and it would have occurred for certain, whether or not you did what you did, and it is not a punishment.”

It made sense. Perfect sense. Yet Harry wasn’t sure he could accept it. He felt tears of confusion well in his eyes.

“You have a son?” he said, his voice cracking slightly. Silently, Malfoy opened his drawer and pulled out a photograph in an ornate silver frame. He held it out to Harry to take. Harry turned away from it, certain that Malfoy could see the grimace on his face, but Malfoy was insistent.

“Go on,” he encouraged. “Make that important step. Look at him.”

Harry took a deep breath and, with slightly trembling hands, he reached out and took the photograph from Malfoy. He’d avoided any and all contact with children for so long, that just the idea of looking at an image was making his stomach churn. Get a grip, he chastised himself, then looked down at the picture. 

In the frame was a photo of a small boy who could easily have passed for Malfoy in miniature. The boy had exactly the same platinum-blond hair, the same sharp, almost pointy features, and even the same expression, despite the fact he couldn’t be any older than five. But the eyes were different: they were a beautiful deep shade of aquamarine, not quite green, or blue, or grey, but somehow a combination of all three at once. And as the boy in the photo waved and smiled at the camera, a beautiful cheeky pair of dimples adorned his cheeks. 

“Scorpius Malfoy,” Malfoy said proudly. Harry turned away from the picture and handed the photograph back to him, unable to look any longer, but Malfoy seemed satisfied. 

“You did well,” he said, with genuine praise in his voice. “Did you notice Scorpius’ eyes?” Harry nodded. “They are exactly the same colour as his mother’s eyes were.” He laughed sardonically. “He looks like his father, but has his mother’s eyes. Just like you. I have to look into those eyes every day and see his mother staring back at me. The guilt nearly drove me mad after Astoria died.”

“How old is he?” Harry asked. 

“He’ll be five in July,” Malfoy replied. “How did you feel, looking at that photo?”

“I didn’t want to look at it at first,” Harry said. “I felt sick, and I was worried that it was going to remind me of Matthew, and-”

“No,” Malfoy interrupted, “I asked how you felt whilst you were looking at it. Not before. There is an important difference.”

_Oh_. Harry had to admit that, although there was the heart-wrenching pang of desperate longing, and the fierce jealousy that flashed through him that Malfoy had the one thing he wanted more than anything else in the world, looking at the picture hadn’t been nearly as difficult as he’d built it up to be. 

“It was okay,” he admitted. “I mean, it was difficult, and I still felt- you know- but it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be.”

“And how do you feel now, after you looked at the picture?” Malfoy said carefully, his quill scratching across a parchment. Harry shut his eyes and took a deep breath.

“No better, but no worse either. The same,” he said. Malfoy nodded. 

“And here is your homework for this week,” he said. “You’re godfather to my late cousin’s son, Edward Lupin, aren’t you?” 

“Yes,” Harry replied. “And to Ron and Hermione’s daughter.”

“And you haven’t seen then since you lost your son.” It wasn’t a question, and Harry didn’t take it as one. He simply nodded miserably. “Right then. This weekend you’re going to spend some time with them. The boy especially.” Malfoy held up a hand when it looked like Harry was going to interrupt. “No, Potter. You’re going to do this. You _need_ to do this, OK? You’re feeling guilty about letting down your son, but all this has achieved is you’re now punishing an innocent boy who desperately needs you. You’re so wrapped up in your own guilt that you’ve neglected a child who will no doubt be missing his godfather terribly. I understand he lives full-time with my aunt, but it’s you to whom he looks up, you who is the father figure in his life, and you who has been absent from his life for months now. He is the one you should be feeling guilty for letting down, not Matthew.”

The words were unexpectedly harsh, but Malfoy held Harry’s gaze, even as Harry felt his eyes begin to sting and burn again. Harry closed them and let Malfoy’s words play in his mind. Harsh as they may have been, they were all true, every last one of them. Rose was alright; after all, she had both her parents and was still very young, but it was a different matter entirely with Teddy. Before this had all happened, he and Teddy had been extremely close. Teddy needed him. And Harry wasn’t there. He’d even missed his birthday this year.

“Oh, Merlin,” he said croakily. “I’ve truly fucked up, haven’t I?”

“It’s not irreparable,” Malfoy said. His voice was soft, gentle now. “Looking at the photograph of my son was difficult, but you did it. You can do this too. Go to him. There is a young boy in this world who needs Harry Potter. And you know what else? You need him, too.”

“I can’t,” Harry said, desperation in his voice. 

“You absolutely can,” Malfoy chastised. “You, Potter, can do whatever you like, when you put your mind to it. You proved that to the world eight years ago by defeating the Dark Lord with a Disarming Charm. It won’t get better overnight, but you need to make the important first step.”

Malfoy stood then, crossed to his Potions cupboard, and pulled out the weekly quota of potions to help Harry’s sleep. Harry took them silently and placed them in his pocket. 

“I strongly urge you to do as I say, and visit your godson,” Malfoy said. “Trust me.”

As Harry stood to leave, those final two words stayed on his mind. Harry no longer thought it was only the Unbreakable Vow that was keeping Malfoy’s mouth shut about him to the press. Because, inexplicably, Harry did trust Malfoy. He’d seen the proof before his own eyes that Malfoy knew what he was talking about, and maybe, just maybe, could actually help him, as long as Harry listened. Before he could talk himself out of it, he made his way out of the hospital to its Apparition point, turned on the spot, and arrived at Andromeda’s house. 

*

_Harry pushed open the back door to The Burrow and stepped into the garden. The night was chilly, especially so for June. He wrapped his cloak around him tighter and crossed the orchard to where_ he _sat on a log. He was smoking a cigarette._

_“Want one?” the man said, as Harry approached, holding out the packet to him. Harry shook his head._

_“’Boy Who Lived’, remember? Not ‘Boy Who Died from Preventable Cardiovascular Disease’.” The man laughed, a throaty, genuine laugh that made Harry’s stomach inexplicably flip. He dropped his half smoked cigarette onto the ground and stubbed it out with the toe of a dragon hide boot. _

_“OK, Mr Sanctimonious,” he said, but it was with humour. “Spare me the lecture.”_

_“I didn’t even know you smoked,” Harry said. The smile slipped off the man’s face._

_“I gave up, about five years ago. But I started again just after… after Fred’s funeral. I guess I was just upset and stressed. If you could not mention this to my mum, I’d be grateful. I don’t need something else for her to nag me about.” He looked at the packet, clearly in some kind of mental battle with himself, and finally an expression akin to ‘sod it’ crossed his features. He pulled out another cigarette, placed it to his lips, and lit it with the end of his wand, taking a long drag and blowing the smoke out again in rings._

_“She didn’t mean it,” Harry said eventually. “Your mum. She knows you’ve got to go back. It’s just, with Fred gone, and Ron and Hermione in Australia for the summer with Hermione’s parents, I think she was trying to hold on to you for a little while longer before you had to go back to Romania.”_

_Charlie sighed. “She always knew I was going to stay until the Death Eater trials had finished, and then I was going back. I have a life there- a job I love, friends… I can’t just give all that up. I’ve already promised her and Dad I’ll come home much more often, but I have to live my own life.”_

_“I wish I could escape,” Harry said wistfully. “Some bastard from the_ Prophet _followed me around Diagon Alley again today, yelling questions at me and taking photographs. I mean, how exciting can the headline, ‘Potter Visits Gringotts’ actually be?”_

_Charlie stared at him for a long moment._

_“Why don’t you come with me?” he said suddenly. “Get away from all the media attention and maniacal fans for a few months. My brother and Hermione have; you deserve to too. When does your Auror training start?”_

_“September the twentieth,” Harry replied._

_“Perfect!” Charlie said. “Three months outside with the dragons, putting some muscle on that skinny frame of yours won’t do any harm at all for Auror training.” He gave Harry an appraised look. “Although you look pretty fine to me as you are.”_

_Harry was suddenly very glad it was dark outside, as he felt his cheeks flush. His stomach flipped again. He didn’t understand why it kept doing that._

_“I’ve never been abroad,” he said. “But I can’t just leave. For one thing, I’ve just started things up again with your sister. I can’t just abandon her again, and there’s no way your mum will let her come with us.”_

_“Harry,” Charlie said firmly, “for once in your life, put yourself first. Ginny will understand. Be selfish, just this one time. Nothing bad will happen, I promise you.”_

_“OK,” Harry replied with a grin._

*

Harry landed just outside Andromeda’s front door, and spotted her walking up the garden path with Teddy, who was in his school uniform and obviously just finished for the day. He saw Harry before Andromeda did, gave a huge shout of delight, and tore off towards his godfather, flinging his arms around Harry’s waist and squeezing him tightly, his hair instantly turning jet black and scruffy-looking. 

“Harry!” he squealed, the grip from his arms unrelenting. “You’re here! You’re actually, really, here! Look, Gran, Harry’s here!” 

Harry held the boy back just as tightly, a lump forming in his throat. This was a million times harder than looking at the photograph of Scorpius Malfoy. But it was also a million times better. He looked over to Andromeda, who was beaming at him. 

_I’m so sorry, Teddy,_ Harry thought as he hugged the small boy in his arms back. 

“Gran said you were poorly,” Teddy said finally, pulling out of Harry’s arms but not letting go of him. “Are you better now?”

“I- I am trying to get better,” Harry replied honestly. “I will get better. Just seeing you has helped.” And Harry meant that. A huge rush of fresh, and very justified, guilt swamped Harry now. Malfoy had been spot-on. He had neglected this child. But he also felt a flicker of determination. Harry made a vow then and there to never neglect this boy again. He knew how it felt to be a forgotten child, and he was buggered if he was going to let it happen to someone else when he could stop it. 

“Did you have a good day at school?” he asked Teddy. Teddy nodded, grinning like the Cheshire Cat. 

“We’re mummifying tomatoes,” he told Harry. “We had to scoop the insides out, like the Egyptians did to their pharaohs, and then bury them in salt, which will turn them into mummies. How cool is that?” He gibbered on about the rest of his day, and Harry tried to keep up with the conversation, but when Teddy started talking about the afternoon spent in a room called an ‘ICT suite’, Harry was lost. 

“Did you want to come inside, Harry?” Andromeda said, interrupting Teddy mid-sentence about something called PowerPoint, and an interactive whiteboard. Harry shook his head, feeling like a bastard when he saw Teddy’s crestfallen expression.

“I just popped by to ask if you wanted to go to the zoo on Saturday,” he said, immediately seeing Teddy’s dejected expression turn to delight. “I missed your birthday, and I want to spend some proper time with you to make it up.”

“Yeah!” yelled Teddy, who was jumping up and down in excitement. “Can we see the wolves?”

“Of course,” Harry replied. “And I really am sorry I missed your birthday. Truly. And I promise you now, I’ll never miss another one.”

“’S OK, Harry,” Teddy said. “Auntie Ginny sent me a present from both of you.” 

Harry felt the wave of fresh guilt rush through him again. But Malfoy was right. Harry could fix this, and damn it if he wasn’t going to. 

“Saturday then,” he told Teddy. “And, Teddy? I love you, and you’re right up there at the top with the people who are most important to me. Always remember that.”

“Love you too, Harry!” Teddy called happily, as Harry said his goodbyes and Disapparated. He’d done it- he’d seen Teddy, and the world hadn’t stopped turning on its axis, and while Harry did feel his loss deeply, he had to admit that seeing Teddy had also lightened his heart. Harry was actually looking forward to Saturday. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked forward to anything at all. And the fact that it was Draco Malfoy who had help him achieve that- well, when had Harry’s life ever been straightforward?

He arrived home, and heard Ginny call, “Harry?”

“In the living room,” he called back, removing his travelling cloak from his shoulders and slinging it over the back of an armchair. Ginny came into the room, wearing an apron with flour all over it. 

“How did it go?” she asked him tentatively, wiping her hands on the apron. 

“It was good,” Harry said. “Actually, it was really good. Malfoy convinced me to see Teddy. Well, he basically told me how it was, that I was completely neglecting him.” Ginny was clearly about to protest, but Harry held up a hand. “No, Gin. It was what I needed to hear, and it’s the truth. You know it was. I didn’t even remember his birthday.” He sighed. “I know you, or Ron, or Hermione, would never have said to me what Malfoy did, as you thought it would make me worse or something. But you all know it’s the truth. And Malfoy made me realise that. So, er, we’re going to the zoo on Saturday.”

“That’s fantastic,” Ginny said, a genuine smile- one so full of hope- crossed her face. “And, um, how was Malfoy?”

Harry opened his mouth to tell Ginny about Malfoy’s wife, and how she died, but something inside him stopped him. Malfoy had shown him respect beyond what Harry thought capable from the prickly ex-Slytherin. And on top of that, he was actually helping Harry. Malfoy had told him about Astoria in confidence. Harry owed him the same show of respect that Malfoy had shown him. 

“He’s fine,” Harry said vaguely, instead.

*

Saturday dawned, crisp but bright, and the cloudless blue sky promised warmer weather once the sun was fully up. It was a beautiful late April day; perfect weather for the zoo. Harry rose at seven, breakfasted, then dressed quickly before travelling by Floo to Andromeda’s house to collect Teddy. 

Teddy flung himself into Harry’s arms, much as he had done a few days’ previously, as soon as Harry stepped through the fireplace. 

“He’s been up since five,” Andromeda told Harry. “Today is all he’s talked about since Wednesday.”

“I’m going to see the giraffes, and the tigers, and the penguins!” Teddy said, his whole body rippling with excitement. “And the snakes in the reptile house!” 

Whenever Harry took Teddy to the zoo, Teddy always insisted on seeing the snakes, which took Harry immediately back fifteen years to when Harry had set a boa constrictor on Dudley from the very same reptile house. 

“Sounds great,” he said. “Shall we go?”

He travelled back to Grimmauld Place by Floo, then they and Ginny took a taxi to London Zoo, where Ron and Hermione were waiting at the gate for them. Hermione was pushing a buggy with a small, red-headed little girl in it, her twenty-week pregnancy bump clearly visible even from a short distance away now. Harry swallowed hard. This was going to be the most difficult part of the day. 

“Now remember,” he said to Teddy, as he felt his stomach lurch with nerves, “control your hair. The last thing we need is having to call in the Obliviators because you’ve given your hair a zebra pattern in front of the Muggles.”

When Teddy was younger, Harry always had to put a hat on him when at the zoo, after he had alarmed a class of school children by turning his hair pink when looking at the flamingos when he was about eighteen months old. But he was older now, and controlling his Metamorphmagus skills well.

“Gotcha, Harry,” Teddy said. He took Harry’s hand in his, and held tight. Harry took strength from his grip, and could almost hear Malfoy’s words echoing in his mind. He repeated them in his brain as he took the last few steps towards his friends and goddaughter: _You, Potter, can do anything you like, when you put your mind to it._

“Alright, mate?” Ron said, once he had reached them. Harry could see the worry in his eyes; a worry that was probably reflected in his. His instinct was to turn and run, but for once in his life he told his instinct to bugger off. 

“Yeah,” he said, still holding Teddy’s hand tightly, wondering who was just supporting who. He took a deep breath, and turned to the girl in the pushchair. “Hello, Rose.” 

The little girl stared at him with her large chocolate-brown eyes, then hid her face in her blanket. Harry felt the lump in his stomach plummet. 

“She’s only two, Harry,” Hermione said gently. “And you’ve been absent from her life for six months. It’s going to take a while for her to know you again.”

“Right,” Harry said. He took out his wallet and extracted a small wad of Muggle notes. “Let’s go in, shall we?” He paid the entrance fee, and in they went. 

The day went both better and worse than Harry had imagined. Better, because Teddy was clearly having the time of his life. He clung to Harry at times during the day, and didn’t miss a single opportunity to use his name, as if Teddy couldn’t believe Harry was really there. They had a lovely lunch in the restaurant, and afterwards Harry had to admit he had sorely missed the sound of his godson laughing and playing as he ran around the play area. Teddy had a wonderful time looking at the wolves, even telling a very uninterested Rose all about how his dad had become one at the full moon (which attracted a very odd look from a passing Muggle, who clearly thought he had an overactive imagination but still led to Harry telling him to keep his voice down). Harry reckoned they must have walked about seven miles around the zoo, but Teddy was a burst of energy, enthusiastic about every animal, and insisting on seeing them all. At the end of the day Harry dropped him home at Andromeda’s house with a huge cuddly wolf and several other souvenirs, a promise that he would see him soon, and a heart lighter than it had felt in months. It truly had been wonderful to spend the day with him. 

Rose, however, had refused to be anywhere near him, clinging to her mother and hiding her face anytime Harry so much as looked at her. Despite Hermione’s reassurances that the behaviour was perfectly normal for a two-year-old, Harry felt bad. His attempt at bribery even failed when Rose burst into frightened tears when Harry presented her with a pink cuddly monkey he bought for her. 

“She’ll come round, Harry,” Ron said. “Just, ah, don’t be a stranger to her, yeah? Soon she’ll be laughing and crawling into your lap again.”

Harry nodded, but the gut-wrenching pang of pain was raw. Aside from her parents, obviously, Harry had been the first person to hold Rose, when she was just a few minutes old, and still slightly purple-looking and covered in white stuff. Until they’d lost Matthew, he’d seen her almost every day, and they’d been close. She had even said the word ‘Hawwy’ before ‘mummy’, much to Hermione’s annoyance. And the worst of it was, Harry knew perfectly well that the rift was his fault. 

Harry had also found it extremely difficult to be around Hermione, who was now at the same stage of her pregnancy that Ginny had been when they had received Matthew’s diagnosis. Every time he spotted Hermione touching her bump, or even had to sit and rest, he felt a jolt of white-hot, maddening jealousy and anger that he did find difficult to curb, and he took himself off for a few minutes twice during the day to compose himself. At one point he’d even let a few tears fall whilst hiding in the gents’. 

The zoo had also been full of families: toddlers riding on their fathers’ shoulders, babies being fed by their mothers on quiet zoo benches, older children laughing and playing in the playground. And it had been hard. More than hard, it had been extremely difficult. But Harry had done it, and he’d survived. And he knew that, next time, it would be that little bit easier. Today had been a big step for him, and he’d done it. No matter how much he’d struggled with the day at times, he’d got through it, and that knowledge gave him a flicker of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could do this. And the look of delight on Teddy’s face had made it all worth it. 

“Today was good, wasn’t it?” Ginny said to him, as she climbed into bed next to him that evening.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It was.”

“I was proud of you, you know,” she said. “I know today was hard for you.”

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” Harry said. “But I did it.”

“You did. And do you know what else, Harry? I even saw you smiling today.”

She snuggled against him as he whispered “ _Nox_ ” to extinguish the lights.

Harry turned on his side, feeling the outline of his wife’s body pressed against his back, and resisting the urge to pull away. If only everything in his life could be fixed by a trip to the zoo, he thought wearily, as he felt Ginny’s hand slip into his. When he’d ended things with Charlie, it was because for once he just wanted a normal, easy, mundane life. He had been so sure he could do it. But he couldn’t. Of course he couldn’t. Feelings couldn’t just be conjured or banished, like they were something in a Transfiguration lesson. They were uncontrollable, primitive, and Harry had no override on them; they couldn’t be switched on and off at will. He was still living a lie, and if everything that had happened with Matthew had taught him anything, it was that he’d been living in a fantasy land full of unobtainable pipedreams and desperation. He couldn’t have the life he’d so badly wanted: the marriage to his childhood sweetheart, the three perfect children, the happily ever after. To have a family of his own, his own flesh and blood, through whose veins his blood flowed, just like everybody else for once. He’d done a damn good job at lying to everyone- himself included- for years now, and he didn’t know if he had the strength to do so anymore. Because one thing was certain- he couldn’t keep doing this. He’d committed the ultimate fuck-up, whichever way he looked at it. 

  



	5. Difficult Decisions

_Harry ran out into the humid night air, unknowing where he was going but knowing he just had to go somewhere, anywhere, away from where he was now. He felt the wind smacking his face as he ran, causing his eyes to water, but he didn’t stop, until he’d run a good mile into the forest and was panting hard._

_He could still hear the faint roaring of the dragons in the distance, but he was sure it was only because he’d become so attuned to it, as he was deep into the thickest part of the woods now. Hand on his thighs, he bent over, trying to catch his breath. He slunk down onto a fallen tree trunk and buried his head in his hands._

_What the hell had just happened? One minute he’d been feeling pleasantly tipsy, Firewhisky in hand and having Charlie toast him on his eighteenth birthday, and the next he’d dropped the glass to the floor, barely even registering the smashing noise it made as it hit wooden floorboards, sending glass and alcohol everywhere, as his arms tightened around Charlie’s neck, and Charlie’s around his waist, and they were kissing, kissing as if their lives depended on it. He had no idea who had kissed who first._

_He felt awful. Not because he’d got drunk and kissed someone behind Ginny’s back- which was bad enough- but because he liked it. A lot. More than he’d liked any kiss ever in his life, in fact. And that terrified him._

_“Harry!” he heard, and turned around slowly, to find Charlie, hot, flushed and completely out of breath, standing behind him, evidently having chased him through the forest._

_“I don’t understand,” Harry said, and he meant it. All of it. He didn’t understand the growing feelings he’d developed over the last six weeks: the flip of his stomach every time Charlie smiled at him, the way his heart seemed to beat at a hundred miles an hour when Charlie took off his T-shirt at the end of a day with the dragons, and he certainly didn’t understand the dreams he’d had recently which involved him and Charlie doing things he thought he’d only ever do with Ginny, or the way his body was awash with arousal when he awoke from them._

_He didn’t understand why he was having sexual feelings for another man. He’d fancied Cho and Ginny, so he was straight, right? And the kiss had just confused him even further. He stared at Charlie, wide-eyed, and suddenly felt like a lost little boy, rather than the man of eighteen he now was._

_“Harry, it will be OK,” Charlie said, reaching out a tentative arm and placing it on Harry’s shoulders, looking very relieved when Harry didn’t flinch or throw it off, but unconsciously leant slightly into the touch. “Look, please don’t freak out on me about this. It was only a kiss.”_

_“Yeah,” Harry parroted tonelessly. “Only a kiss.”_

_It was just one kiss. A drunken pressing of mouths between two friends in high spirits. It didn’t mean Harry was attracted to him, or Charlie to Harry, and it didn’t change anything between them, or mean it was going to happen again. They could just forget all about it and go back to the dragons._

_Harry’s birthday that year was the day he began to lie to himself as well as everyone else around him- a lie that would last the next seven years._

__

*

Harry hadn’t set out to royally fuck up his life quite so spectacularly. After the war, he played the role of the perfect little hero: he received his first-class Order of Merlin, alongside Ron and Hermione, he attended numerous funerals and memorial services for those who had died during the Battle of Hogwarts, he gave evidence at many of the Death Eater trials and secured convictions (and, in the case of Malfoy and his mother, exonerations), he enrolled in Auror training as the entire wizarding world had expected him to, and he had started up his relationship with his childhood sweetheart once more. 

Being gay certainly had not been in Harry’s agenda. He’d fully intended to qualify as an Auror, marry Ginny, have a hoard of children, have a normal, peaceful life in a pretty little cottage somewhere in the countryside, and live Happily Ever After. Maybe in Ottery St Catchpole, or perhaps even Godric’s Hollow. He hadn’t intended to fall head over heels in love with Ginny’s second eldest brother, which resulted in the perfect little existence he’d created for himself in his head to blow up in smoke around him. 

Harry had never meant to hurt Ginny when they wed. He had married her fully intending for their marriage to succeed. After all, he did love her. He still did now. But it was the same love he felt for Ron or Hermione, not the love a husband should feel for his wife. Not the love he had felt for Charlie, the man whose heart Harry had broken when he’d got married. He buried that deep in his psyche though, unwilling to allow himself to think about it. And if his and Ginny’s sex life was passionless, if it did follow the same repetitive cycle of the lights-off, missionary-only, Harry bringing Ginny to orgasm with his mouth after he’d climaxed inside her (she didn’t need to know that giving her oral beforehand killed his erection)- well, they were content. It was worth burying his true sexuality deep, Harry thought; he could see the life he’d wanted in his reach. He’d qualified as an Auror and was rapidly making progress through the ranks, Ginny had her dream job as Chaser for the Harpies, and in a couple of years they were going to sell Grimmauld Place and buy a plot of land, building a dream home with lots of bedrooms for lots of children. And it was almost enough to make up for the desire, the longing within him to be true to himself. Almost. 

Hermione knew, of course. She was the only person in the world, besides himself and Charlie, of course, who knew. Harry hadn’t meant to tell her he was gay, or about him and Charlie, but he had blurted it out drunkenly just after he’d finally ended their affair for good and she hadn’t judged, or yelled, or threatened to tell Ron; she’d simply held him as he’d cried and told him she had suspected for some time. She’d worked it out months before, apparently, all based on a ‘look’ he and Charlie had shared the previous Christmas. Hermione was extremely perceptive to the point of irritation at times. 

The first problem, the first sign that Harry’s so-called ‘perfect’ plan was flawed beyond salvation, was when, after over a year of trying for a baby, Ginny still wasn’t pregnant. Keen to start on a family, they’d started trying soon after their wedding, expecting her to conceive quickly and easily, as her mother had. The stress of month after month of disappointment as Ginny’s period arrived had put a massive strain on them, with Harry even moving out into Ron and Hermione’s spare room for a couple of weeks, after a huge row about it once. But they’d reconciled, agreed to seek medical help, and then Ginny had fallen pregnant naturally just a month before they were due to see a fertility specialist at St Mungo’s. They’d both been delighted, and Harry relieved beyond measure, when that little Muggle pregnancy test Harry had bought from a chemist on his way home from work had revealed two pink lines. He was finally going to get his dream, the life he wanted, it had all been worth it… and then it had all turned to shit around him. 

Here he was now: eight months after the loss of Matthew, two months after he first started to see Malfoy, and in many aspects Harry was unrecognisable from the almost stoic man on the path to self-destruction who had first walked into his office back in April. Harry strongly suspected it was because he was now actively dealing with his grief, rather than running from it or pretending there wasn’t a problem, as he had done for six months, which was a key reason for this. The other reason was Malfoy himself, and the very good advice he gave, which Harry couldn’t deny had done more for him than he ever thought it could. Whatever combination it was, however, it was working: Harry was beginning to take charge of his life again.

He was seeing Teddy regularly, and the two had reclaimed their close relationship. He’d made progress with Rose after weeks of trying to win her over, and the girl would now sit on his lap and giggle when he played with her. He’d been out for a (non-alcoholic) drink with Ron and Neville, and had even gone back to work on a part-time basis- just two afternoons a week, and strictly desk duty only- but it was a start. He could even be in the same room as Hermione and her now-massive bump without feeling the need to run away; even if the feeling of despair hadn’t quite disappeared, he was now in control of it. Just having Malfoy there, someone to talk to who really, genuinely, understood the guilt he felt in a way his family and friends never could had done wonders for him, to help him realise he wasn’t alone in the world, and in May Harry had increased his sessions with Malfoy to two a week. 

He still had bad days, as Malfoy said he would- days where something or someone would remind him so strongly of Matthew he would curl onto his sofa and weep, sometimes for hours, but they were getting further and further apart. Although Matthew was the first thing on Harry’s mind every morning, and the last thing he thought of before going to sleep, he was coping. Harry could feel himself healing. And with this came the realisation that, as Harry continued to recover slowly, there was one area of his life that had not improved at all in the last few months: his marriage. He and Ginny could not continue along in this little bubble of the fabricated perfect marriage that he had created, Harry recognised. Bubbles do not last forever, and once popped, they’re gone permanently. He also wondered how fair this was to Ginny, who had done nothing wrong at all in all this. Merlin, he really was a bastard. Something had to give, but Harry wasn’t sure what, and as he continued to feel better, it became harder to keep blaming all the problems in his life on losing Matthew. He needed to talk to someone. No, he corrected himself, he needed to talk to Malfoy, even though Harry was sure it wasn’t exactly what Malfoy was trained to deal with. He was right. 

“I am a grief counsellor, not a marriage guidance therapist, Potter,” Malfoy said, at Harry’s next counselling session at the end of June, when Harry mentioned he wanted to talk about his and Ginny’s relationship. 

“I know that,” Harry said, somewhat waspishly. “It’s just, I think- no, I know- that this is connected to the guilt that I still can’t let go. I think it’s time I told you exactly why I think I deserved everything I got.”

Interest clearly piqued, Malfoy leant a little closer to Harry across his desk and picked up the now very familiar-looking white peacock feather quill.

“Okay, then,” Malfoy said. “Talk.”

So Harry did. He explained about how he married Ginny to fulfil his desperate desire for a family of his own and a normal life, how he cheated on her with someone from the time he was eighteen until just before his wedding, and the long-held belief that Matthew’s illness and death was his punishment for being a selfish, cowardly bastard, as he simply didn’t deserve to be a father.

“So you married your wife because you wanted a family, but were in love with someone else and seeing them behind her back for all that time?” Malfoy asked, his brow furrowed in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why could you not have married this other woman and had a family with her, if you actually loved her? Was she a Muggle?”

“Like that would have bothered me,” Harry retorted. “I couldn’t have had children with them because-” He took a deep breath, clenching his fists, and searching for the courage he needed to say the next few words. He’d never said these words aloud before, not even to himself, or even Hermione. Harry had always seen it as the final, irrevocable admission, and once said he could no longer pretend to himself that he was normal. He realised his hands were trembling despite his clenched fists and his heart was pounding. “Because it wasn’t another woman, alright? It was another man. I’m gay, Malfoy.”

“Oh.” Malfoy’s response was only one word, but the stupefied expression on his face, and the high-pitched intonation of the word left Harry under no illusions: Harry had literally just shocked Malfoy into silence. He stared at Malfoy as the expression didn’t change, the nib of the peacock feather quill piercing a hole on the parchment on Malfoy’s desk. A feeling of cold dread that he’d just made a massive mistake flooded through him. He’d just handed Draco Malfoy another reason to think he was a total freak.

“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he managed eventually. 

“No, of course you should have,” Malfoy said, clearly trying- and failing- to make his voice sound normal. “I just wasn’t expecting that at all. I do apologise for my less than eloquent reaction, Potter. You managed to catch me off-guard, that’s all.” He gave Harry a deep, piercing look as if trying to read something he couldn’t quite see. “But I am unsure as to what you want me to do with this information, now you’ve given it to me.”

“It’s the reason I feel guilty!” Harry said. “And you said I need to, um, work through those reasons before I can get better.”

“I did, that is very true.” Malfoy’s expression didn’t change; he continued to fix Harry with the piercing stare that made Harry extremely uneasy, and Harry felt a strand of annoyance snap, along with a very real stab of fear. Why wasn’t Malfoy helping him? Was he being deliberately unsupportive? “Potter, we’ve discussed how your feelings of guilt are irrational, and connected to your grief. You have accepted this, I know you must have, otherwise you wouldn’t have been able to make the headway you have. We have been working through this for two months now, and we have been making steady progress. So forgive me if I don’t truly believe your entire reasoning for telling me this about yourself is because you want to talk about guilt surrounding Matthew’s death with me. I told you- I’m not a marriage guidance counsellor, Potter.”

Harry recoiled like he had been slapped in the face. Firstly because this wasn’t the reaction he’d expected at all, but secondly, and more importantly, was because since when did Draco Malfoy learn to read him like a fucking ancient tome in the library at Hogwarts? Because Malfoy was spot-on, yet again. 

“I just need to talk about this with someone,” he said, much quieter now. He realised he was still trembling. “I can’t see myself ever recovering properly and being happy while I’m still living a lie.”

“I can pass your details onto my colleague,” Malfoy replied. “She’s qualified in relationship counselling, and I sure she’ll-”

“No!” Harry interrupted. “I want to talk to you.” He bit his lip, hating the admission. “I _need_ to talk to you,” he whispered.

“What do you want me to tell you?” Malfoy said, almost as quietly. This was as cold and detached as Harry had seen him since their re-acquaintance two months ago. Harry looked him in the eye.

“Whether I should end my marriage,” he said honestly. Malfoy paled significantly. 

“You know I cannot do that,” he said. Harry thought Malfoy looked angry, and Harry didn’t understand why. “Potter, if you’re sure you’re gay-”

“Of course I’m sure,” Harry said, interrupting again. “I’ve been sure since I was eighteen years old. I’m twenty-six in a month’s time. Eight years is a long time to not be sure, don’t you think?”

“-If you’re sure, you’re gay,” Malfoy continued, as if Harry hadn’t interrupted, “and it isn’t just a reaction to losing your son making you question your relationship with your wife, then you, and you only, can decide if you should continue in your marriage.” He looked extremely flustered now, Harry thought. “I can give you names of people to help, _qualified people_ , but me, no. Definitely not.” He checked the clock on the wall then, and relief spread over his face when he realised their session was up. This did nothing to improve Harry’s temper. “I shall see you on Tuesday. Unless-” he paused, uncertain- “you would like to bring Teddy to the Manor on Saturday? It’s Scorpius’ birthday. He doesn’t have the opportunity to play with other children very often, what with me being an only child so he has no cousins, and the majority of my friends still childless. I thought it would be nice for him to meet his relative.”

“Is that ethical? Seeing you outside of this room, socially I mean?”

“It’s an invite to a child’s party, not my insisting you sign your Gringotts account over to me. So, what do you say?”

Harry had never really thought of Teddy being related to the Malfoys. Obviously he knew he was, but it was just too weird, and he’d never really considered it. But he found himself agreeing to arrive at Malfoy Manor for three on Saturday afternoon. He then collected his few sleeping potions and left the office, a lot more confused than he had been before. 

He didn’t think Malfoy was homophobic, Harry thought as he started the walk home; after all, he had just invited Harry into his home in a few days’ time. But his revelation had definitely unnerved Malfoy, and Harry couldn’t help but feel that he had made a huge mistake in mentioning anything to his counsellor at all. Since their sessions had begun, Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy looking as flustered and lost for words as he had when Harry confessed he was gay and was seriously contemplating ending his marriage. And, Harry thought as he walked through the bustling and crowed tourist area of Camden Market and headed for home, he very much wanted to find out what caused that reaction.

*

At a quarter to three in the afternoon precisely on the Saturday, Harry Side-Along Apparated Teddy to the gates of Malfoy Manor, and the pair began the walk through the grounds to the main entrance. Trying very hard not to think about the time he was last here, when he, Ron and Hermione were captured during the war, he raised a fist and knocked on the heavy, solid oak door. He only had a few seconds’ wait before the door was opened by a tiny house-elf, dressed in a silk blue pillowcase. 

“Er, Harry Potter and Teddy Lupin?” Harry said, somewhat nervously. “We’re here for the party?”

“Please follow Flimby,” said the elf in a croaky voice, and he turned and disappeared into the vast entrance hall of the Manor. He led them down a corridor and into a large room which, thankfully, was not the same one that Hermione had been tortured in by Bellatrix, eight years previously. The room was filled with people: some of whom, like Malfoy’s parents, Daphne Greengrass and Pansy Parkinson, he recognised, but the majority he did not. Harry immediately felt extremely uncomfortable; why on earth had he agreed to this? Malfoy had been telling the truth too- aside from who Harry recognised as Scorpius Malfoy from the photo he’d seen of the youngster, there were perhaps only three or four other children present. The adults greatly outweighed them.

“Mr Potter,” said Narcissa Malfoy formally as she crossed the room to greet them. Harry thought she hadn’t changed much in the years since he had last seen her: she still had a regal beauty somewhat marred by a snobbery that gave her a slightly horse-like expression. “Draco informed me you were attending, and bringing a guest.” She held out her hand, which Harry took. 

“Mrs Malfoy,” he replied in greeting. “Erm, is Mal- I mean, Draco here?” He thought he could hardly call Malfoy by his surname, given there were four people at least here who had the name. Narcissa gave him a small smile, and called Malfoy- _Draco_ , Harry reminded himself- over, who, upon seeing Harry and Teddy standing awkwardly in the doorway called Scorpius to him and the pair headed towards Harry and Teddy.

“Glad you could make it,” Draco said, with a small smile on his face, which turned into a laugh when Teddy thrust the large wrapped gift he was holding into Scorpius’ tiny arms. “Scorpius, this is Mr Potter and Teddy. Say hello.”

“Hello, Teddy. Hello, Mr Potter,” said Scorpius, eyes and nose just visible over the top of the present.

“Happy birthday, Scorpius. And please, call me Harry,” Harry said.

“Hello, Mr Harry,” Scorpius replied, causing Harry to give a small chuckle. It wasn’t the first time now that he’d smiled or laughed spontaneously since the loss of Matthew, but the emotion still felt extremely strange, like he was laughing with someone else’s mouth while he did so. 

“Do you have a PlayStation?” Teddy asked suddenly. Both Malfoy senior and junior wore identical expressions of incomprehension on their faces. 

“It’s a computer console for playing games on,” Harry explained. “And no, Teddy, I told you Scorpius wouldn’t have one, didn’t I?” 

“C’mon, Scorpius, let’s go play,” Teddy said. “And I’ll tell you all about them.” The two boys disappeared into the crowd together. Draco turned to Harry.

“Aunt Andromeda was fine with you bringing him here, then?” he said. Harry bit his lip and nodded, not quite meeting Draco’s eye. He could feel a faint blush creeping onto his cheeks. Draco’s expression darkened. “You didn’t tell her, did you, Potter?”

“Define ‘telling’.”

“As in, ‘my aunt knows in whose house her grandson is currently’.”

“That would be a no.”

Harry didn’t need to explain to Draco that Andromeda would hardly have welcomed the prospect of letting her grandson into the home of her estranged sister. He’d explained- gently- to Teddy the importance of not mentioning exactly whose birthday it was today. Besides, Harry thought, he did have joint custody of the boy. He was allowed to take him to Scorpius Malfoy’s party if he wished. 

Draco didn’t bother with formal introductions to the other guests, and Harry was grateful. He was starting to feel uncomfortable with the amount of questioning stares he was receiving, but pleased that Teddy and Scorpius seemed to hit it off together so perfectly. When it was time to eat, three house-elves appeared and shepherded everyone into a dining room that was extravagantly decked out in magical decorations, many of which sang ‘Happy Birthday’ as someone walked past. The children had a separate table to eat at from the adults and Harry, not feeling especially hungry (and certainly not wanting to sit next to a man who made Vernon Dursley look like a slender, toned individual who was apparently the father of one of the children) slipped out of the dining room and into the vast corridor, longing for a few minutes’ peace. He began to look at the photographs and portraits that adorned the high walls: paintings of long-dead former inhabitants of the Manor glared at him. He noticed that the pale skin, white-blond hair and angular features in most of males and reasoned that those genes seemed to go back generations. 

At the end of the corridor there were pictures of the four Malfoys Harry was familiar with, and many photographs. He noticed with a jolt that lots of them contained Draco, a much younger Scorpius and a woman who must be Astoria. The adults in the photos waved and smiled; Draco looked very happy, Harry thought. Harry remembered that he had asked Astoria for a divorce when Scorpius was a baby. It couldn’t have been long after these photos were taken. What could have gone wrong?

“I’m sorry they’re all staring. I told them all I’d invited Teddy, and you were accompanying him. They know nothing of our sessions.” 

Draco’s soft voice made Harry jump violently. He’d not been paying any attention to anything other than the photographs and had not heard Draco approaching. 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop,” he said. “I just needed a minute alone. Rooms filled with loads of people still make me very uncomfortable at times.” Draco gave him a look that showed he understood. For a couple of minutes they stood in comfortable silence, staring at the photographs. 

“What happened?” Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. “Between you and Astoria? Why did you ask her for a divorce? You both look happy here.”

The minute the words were out of his mouth Harry wished to take them back, particularly when he noticed Draco paling in the dimly-lit hallway. “I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, it’s OK.” Draco’s voice was steady but carried a definite trace of nerves to it. Harry saw him lick his bottom lip, before capturing it between his top teeth. Draco sighed then looked Harry in the eye. “Let’s just say, Potter, I’ve recently learnt that the fact you and I both carried around irrational guilt over something that wasn’t our faults for a long time isn’t the only thing we have in common.” 

Oh. _Oh_!

Harry felt his eyes widen. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He wondered fleetingly if he looked like a guppy out of water. “You’re…”

“Not here,” Draco said. “Later. When this wretched party is over. We’ll talk then.” Then without another word he turned on his heels and walked back down the corridor and into the dining room, leaving Harry wondering what had just happened. 

The rest of the party passed in a daze. Having only ever been to Teddy’s and Rose’s birthday parties- both of which were heavily influenced by Muggle things thanks to Hermione, Harry, and even Andromeda (whose husband was a Muggle-born and had brought a lot of Muggle traditions with him into the wizarding world), Harry was interested to note that purely magical birthday parties really weren’t that different. Sure, musical chairs was a lot more fun when the chair was Transfigured into a porcupine instead of simply removed (not that a couple of the children didn’t attempt to sit on it anyway), but the essence of them was the same. Teddy seemed to enjoy it anyway. To be honest, after Draco’s revelation in the corridor, Harry was hardly paying attention to the party any longer. 

As soon as the last guest had left, and Lucius and Narcissa had retired to their own quarters for the evening, Draco sent Scorpius and Teddy to Scorpius’ room to play (the two had got along like a house on fire all afternoon), poured them both a drink, and indicated to the armchairs. Harry sat down, taking a glass.

“It’s only elderflower cordial,” Draco said, aware that Harry was staying away from alcohol. “So, what do you want to know?”

“What do you want to tell me?”

Draco took a sip of his drink and placed the glass on the table. “I don’t think I need to mention that whatever I tell you doesn’t leave this room,” he said.

“Of course not,” Harry said. “After all, you’ve not told anyone about me, have you?”

“I can’t, Potter. We have an Unbreakable Vow.”

“But even if we didn’t, I don’t believe you would.” And Harry meant it. Somehow, in the past nine or ten weeks, something had irrevocably shifted between them. 

“You’re right. I wouldn’t.” Draco looked at Harry. Harry thought he could see something akin to gratitude in his expression, that Harry finally trusted him. “Our situations are different, Potter. You went into your marriage knowing you were gay, and you were involved with someone. I, on the other hand, came to the realisation I preferred my own sex after my wedding. Until then, Astoria and I were perfectly content.” At Harry’s expression, Draco let out a sardonic laugh. “You think you were the only one who had more important things to worry about than dating during Hogwarts, Golden Boy? Try sharing your home”- he gesticulated with an open hand around the room- “with an insane madman, worrying about whether or not you will still be alive by morning. My priority was staying alive. I didn’t devote much attention to whom I wished to take to bed. Similar to your own situation, I should imagine.”

He picked up the glass of elderflower cordial and drank deeply from it. 

“After you finally rid the world of the Dark Lord, the Malfoy name was in tatters. Father was under house arrest, Mother and I were only exonerated thanks to you, and we were hated by pretty much everyone- everyone except those old pure-blood families who had stayed neutral in the war, like the Zabinis, Parkinsons and the Greengrasses. Mother and Father were good friends with Astoria’s parents, and they made it perfectly clear to me that marriage into their family would help restore the Malfoy name once more.”

“Your marriage was arranged?” Harry asked, incredulous. Draco shook his head.

“Of course not. This isn’t the mediaeval age. I was just… encouraged. Originally my parents and Astoria’s tried to push me and Daphne together. Well, she knocked that idea on the head by coming out as a lesbian.” He gave another snort of sardonic laughter. “In retrospect, that would have been the perfect set-up for us both, had I but known. But, no, our courtship never got started, and then Astoria showed an interest in me. Initially I was worried as she was still at Hogwarts, but the union greatly pleased my parents, and she was nice enough, so I went along with it. Then when she left Hogwarts we were married, Scorpius was conceived on our honeymoon, and… well. You know the rest. She was dead by the age of twenty.” 

“When did you realise?” Harry said.

“When Scorpius was nine months old,” Draco said. “I was in Edinburgh for a few days for work- I was training in accountancy at the time- and one night I went out with a couple of colleagues. One of them was called Patrick. There was just something about him that meant I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and at the end of the night, fuelled with alcohol, I kissed him. I had my epiphany right there, half-pissed, standing on the steps of St Giles’ Cathedral. After that we owled each other, met up once or twice a week- only for drinks, mind, I didn’t sleep with him- and before I knew it, two months had passed and I’d fallen arse-over-tit in love with him. Until then, I didn’t know I wasn’t in love with my wife. A month later I decided to end my marriage with her, and pursue a relationship with Patrick. Scorpius had just turned one.”

“Are you still with Patrick?” Harry asked.

“No. We didn’t even get together. After Astoria died, I couldn’t stand to see him as it was just a reminder of what I’d done. I told him I never wanted to see him again, and he honoured my wishes admirably.” Draco rubbed his cupped hands over his face. “Why am I telling you all this, Potter?”

“Because it’s essential to be able to talk to someone who actually understands exactly how you feel,” Harry said. He wondered when this role of counsellor and client had spun a hundred and eighty degrees, and he was doing listening. “Everyone else can sympathise, but they don’t know anything about what you’re actually going through.”

Draco gave him an unreadable expression then, and stood abruptly. 

“It’s getting late,” he said. “You probably need to get Teddy home.” Harry recognised the dismissal and didn’t push it further. He knew now, at least, why Draco had seemed so unnerved by his revelation during their counselling session. He remembered Draco telling him, a month or so ago, that the wounds never completely heal, but we all learn to deal with it so life can go on. He’d just seen that plain as day in front of him. 

“Yeah,” he said. “I should go.” 

Once he’d collected Teddy and taken him home, he returned home to Grimmauld Place. The conversation with Draco- the name had stuck in his mind now, as after two people have shared such intimate information, addressing each other by surnames seemed ridiculous- was still very fresh in his mind. And he felt more confused than ever what to do now, no nearer to deciding whether to fight for his marriage or to bail. As he and Ginny went up to bed together later that evening, and she turned away from him, snoring softly, his mind raced with memories of when he’d ended things with Charlie. It had gone horribly, Charlie had taken it very badly, and Harry had no wish to make his wife, whose only crime was to love him, feel like that. 

*

_Charlie looked extremely pale as Harry’s words seemed to sink in._

_“You mean it this time, don’t you?” he said, his tone eerily neutral and in a stark contrast to the shattered appearance on his face and the way he was slumped into an armchair. “You’re actually fucking doing it this time.”_

_“Yes,” Harry replied, unable to think of anything else to say. He also didn’t think he could manage to say anything more than a couple of words at a time just yet anyway, as his throat felt extremely tight. “Charlie, I’m-”_

_“Don’t you dare say you’re sorry,” Charlie snarled. “Do you know what, Harry? I’ve put up with a lot from you. I’ve been your dirty little secret, I’ve kept myself in the closet with my own family for you, and I’ve even accepted being your bit on the side- all because I love you. But I never thought you would actually go through with this sham of a wedding.”_

_“It’s not a sham!” Harry protested. “I- I want to marry her.”_

_Charlie laughed then, but it contained no humour whatsoever._

_“You keep telling yourself that, Harry, if it makes you feel any better. You keep telling yourself that she can make you feel how I do, or that when you’re fucking my little sister, it’s not me you’re thinking of.”_

_“You always knew I was going to marry her,” Harry said, and as he did so he realised his cheeks were wet. “I never hid that from you. You knew this couldn’t be forever.”_

_“It still could be,” Charlie said. “You and me. Come back to Romania and live with me there. The Romanian Auror force will be glad to have you. Please, Harry.”_

_“No.” That one word came out sounding much stronger than Harry felt. He realised he was shaking now. Charlie’s offer was tempting, but Harry had made his choice. And he’d chosen a family, a normal life. He’d chosen Ginny._

_“Fine then.” Charlie stood and flashed him a look that was as close to hatred as Harry had ever seen on his face. “I never thought I’d use the word coward to describe you, Harry Potter, but that’s what you’re being. A huge fucking coward. You’re running away. From yourself and from me. You chose what is easy, rather than what is right.”_

_Charlie’s words, unintentionally parroting Dumbledore’s from years before, felt like a slap in the face._

_“Just go, please,” he whispered. Charlie stared into his eyes for the final time, then grabbed his cloak and wand, turned, and walked out of the room without so much as a backwards glance. Harry waited until the door slammed shut, then finally let his tears fall._

*

Charlie had stayed for the wedding, did a passable job of plastering on a happy face, then took the first international Portkey out he could the following morning. He’d not returned to Britain since. Harry was fully aware of what he’d done to Charlie. And it would be a million times worse to do that to Ginny, who was his wife, and- unlike Charlie- was a complete innocent in all this. He didn’t know if he had it in him to break another person’s heart. But he didn’t know if he could continue with this ridiculous pretence any longer, either. 

Whatever Harry did, someone was going to suffer. Whatever Charlie had said the time about this being easy was bullshit. Burying Matthew aside, this was going to be the most difficult thing he ever did, and whatever decision he made, he just hoped he and Ginny would both come through the other end. 

  



	6. The End

For the next few weeks, things continued as they had been doing for the past few months for Harry, although he noticed that Draco was decidedly cooler towards him. He had thought that, at Scorpius’ party anyway, they had turned a corner and had even been friendly towards one another even, but as July turned into August, and then even into September, Harry observed that Draco was being nothing but distantly professional with him. There had been no more invitations for Teddy to come and play, and Harry knew better than to extend an invitation himself. He knew it would be refused. Harry had even seen hints of the old Malfoy creeping back.

“Are we on first-name terms now, Potter?” he had drawled, when Harry had slipped and called him Draco during one of their sessions. Harry had simply bit his lip but said nothing. But he couldn’t help notice that Draco had avoided eye contact with him for the rest of the session. It was confusing him; OK, Harry could admit freely that he and Draco were far from friends, but he’d felt like he’d found someone who truly understood him, someone who was truly helping him, and, yes, Harry did think part of him saw that whatever there was went beyond client and therapist, especially given that Draco had shared some extremely personal information of his own with Harry at the party. Harry had thought they’d finally drawn a line under their past. Obviously he had been wrong, and Harry could now add bewildered rejection to the growing list of messed-up emotions he was trying to deal with. At the top of that list at the moment, however, was mind-numbing pain once more. 

On the second of September, Hermione went into labour and delivered a healthy baby. Harry arrived home from work that Saturday evening and found an ashen-looking Ginny sitting at the kitchen table, waiting to tell him the news. She had obviously been crying, given the red rim to her eyes and the tear track dried on her face. At first Harry had been quite convinced someone had died and felt an unpleasant fluttering sensation in his stomach which was extremely close to panic, but then Ginny opened her mouth and uttered in a very shaky voice, “It’s a boy. They’re calling him Hugo.” Then she burst into tears. 

Harry stood in the kitchen doorway, rooted to the spot. He had known the baby was due, of course, but he’d kept putting that fact to the back of his mind, stored in the ‘shit to deal with later’ compartment. There was no later, now; his best friends had just had a son, and he was left with nothing but an overwhelming sense of sadness. He screwed his eyes tightly shut as he felt his jaw clench. Not until he heard a shattering of glass did he open them, and when he did so it was to reveal all the glassware on the display shelf had smashed. Ginny stared at him, shocked but also frightened. It was months since Harry had lost control and performed wandless magic like that. He pulled out his wand, muttered, “ _Reparo,_ ” and watched as the pieces of glass reassembled themselves into wine glasses and tumblers. 

“Sorry,” he said. “Gin, I’m sorry.” 

“They want us to go and see him tonight,” Ginny continued, as if Harry hadn’t just exploded half the glassware in the kitchen. “But I don’t know if I can.”

“If there’s one thing I’ve learnt since I’ve been seeing Malfoy, it’s that hiding doesn’t help,” Harry said. “He’s our nephew, Gin. We have to face this sometime.” Ginny didn’t reply but gave a shaky nod. 

“Go and wash your face,” Harry said, “And then we’ll go. Are they at St Mungo’s?”

“No. Hermione came home about an hour ago.”

“Well, that will make it a little easier,” Harry replied, in a forced confidence that was purely for Ginny’s benefit. What he wanted to do was scream, or shout, or… bollocks. He wanted to talk to _Draco_. 

Ginny came downstairs a few minutes later, and together they Apparated to Ron and Hermione’s house. 

It was full of Weasleys, of course; everywhere Harry turned there were heads of red hair, children running around, and laughter ringing out from every corner. It was Arthur who spotted his and Ginny’s arrival first, and he tapped Molly on the arm, who turned to look, the grin on her face sliding immediately as she sobered. In turn, all the Weasleys turned to look at Harry and Ginny, as the room fell silent.

“I can’t do this,” Harry said. He turned on his heels as if to Apparate again, but was stopped by Ron.

“Mate,” Ron said, touching him uncertainly on the arm and looking like he didn’t know what on earth to say, “Please don’t go, Harry.”

“We were leaving anyway,” said Bill pointedly to Fleur, as Fleur gave him a nod. He called Victoire and Dominique over to him. “Come on, girls, say goodbye. We’re off.”

It didn’t take long after that for all the Weasleys to leave, which meant Harry felt awkward now, too. They shouldn’t feel they couldn’t celebrate the birth, just because it was the last thing he and Ginny felt like doing. 

“Hawwy!” said a small voice. Harry looked down and saw that a recently-turned three-year-old Rose was standing with her arms in the air, beaming at him, waiting to be picked up. He forced a smile then picked the girl up, balancing her on his hip. 

“How’s my favourite girl?” he asked, fixed grin still in place, as Rose giggled. Inside he could feel his heart breaking. He wasn’t about to upset her again though, not now she was finally trusting him fully again, and if that meant a fake smile, then so be it.

“Baby came out of mummy’s tummy,” said Rose. “My brudder.” 

“Did he?” said Harry absently. He was barely listening now, as his eyes were fixed solely on Hermione, who was sitting gingerly on the sofa in a dressing gown, blanket over her, and cradling a small blue bundle from which shocking red hair was protruding. 

“Congratulations,” he heard Ginny say tightly. Like him, however, she’d made no attempt to go nearer, and was still standing close to the doorway. Harry could feel her arm shaking slightly as it brushed against his own. “I’m sorry. This is harder than I thought it was going to be.” Hermione was staring at them both, looking upset.

“Hermione, we shouldn’t be here,” Harry said. “We don’t want to ruin this for you both.”

“I, er, OK,” Hermione replied in a small voice. She sounded sad. Harry took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to do this to her. Not to Hermione, whom he loved like a sister, who had just had a baby and should be feeling on top of the world. She had always been there when he needed her, had never once let him down; it was his turn to be there when she needed him now. He could do this. Draco had taught him that more than once in recent months.

He remembered looking at the photo of Draco’s son, and how that had been easier than he thought it would be. And Draco had been right about needing to reconcile with Teddy. He could almost hear Draco’s voice in his mind: _‘Honestly, Potter, you need to do this. You slayed the Dark Lord. You can look at a baby, for Merlin’s sake’_. And unless he avoided his friends from now on- which he was not prepared to do again- he needed to see the baby. So, instead of walking out the door as he had intended, Harry handed Rose to Ginny and walked towards the sofa. He gave Hermione a small smile, which she instantly returned. 

“He’s beautiful,” Harry whispered, aware that his cheeks were wet. He blinked more moisture out of his eyes. He thought that Hermione’s face probably mirrored his own, given the tears running silently down her own face.

“I’m sorry,” Hermione said, and Harry broke.

“Never apologise for this. For him,” he said, through shaking, uneven breaths. “He’s a miracle.”

“Do you want to hold him?” she asked tentatively. 

“No. I can’t. Not yet, Hermione. But I will. Soon,” he promised. Hermione nodded in understanding. “It’s not going to be like last time. This is just… this is the hardest thing I’ve done since I started to get better, I think.”

“Ginny?” Ron asked. Ginny put Rose down, who instantly ran off to play dollies, and walked until she was standing next to Harry.

“Can I?” she asked, her arms outstretched. Hermione nodded then held Hugo out to her, and Ginny took the bundle. Harry looked away. The image of seeing her cradling a newborn was too painful. He heard Ginny give a small sob, and when he opened his eyes, Hugo was back in his mother’s arms, and Ginny was somehow in his. He held her tightly.

“We’ll see you soon?” Ron asked, apparently aware that Harry and Ginny had reached their limit and were about to leave. 

“Yeah. Yeah, mate, you will,” Harry said. He held out his hand, and Ron instantly shook it. “Look, Ron. Congratulations. And I do mean that, OK?”

“Thanks, Harry,” Ron replied. Shall I walk you to the Floo?”

“Actually, I’d like to go and see Matthew,” Ginny replied. “Harry, will you come with me?”

Harry nodded and walked over to Hermione once more. He put his arms around her shoulders and pulled her in close, before dropping a kiss onto her head. 

“I’ll be OK, you know,” he whispered. Hermione patted his knee.

“I know you will. Goodbye, Harry. Bye, Ginny,” she said. Both said goodbye in return, and then Harry took hold of Ginny and Side-Along Apparated them to Matthew’s grave.

When they arrived they could hear talking and laughter coming from The Burrow, but both chose to ignore the house, heading straight for the gravesite instead. When they got there they both set about performing a few charms to freshen up the flowers and remove the few weeds, both crying quietly. 

“I’m ready for another baby,” Ginny said, after a few minutes. She wasn’t looking at Harry; instead she was staring at the gravestone, tracing Matthew’s name with her thumb. “I’d like us to try again.”

Harry froze. How long had he waited to hear those words? For how many months had be pestered, badgered, begged, Ginny to try for another baby, even accusing her of putting a Quidditch career before a family? Six months ago he’d have agreed instantly, he thought. But that was before, when the need for another baby in the vain hope it would quell the pain of losing Matthew was strong, and he believed that another child would somehow make everything magically better. This was definitely no longer the case. Harry had finally opened his eyes to the truth, and he knew there was no way he could even consider a baby when he was still extremely unsure if he was even going to stay in his marriage much longer. 

“Harry?”

Harry looked at Ginny. He realised he was unnaturally still.

“What’s brought this on?” he said quietly. “Is it just seeing Ron and Hermione today? Because last time we talked about this, you were adamant you didn’t want another anytime soon.”

“No, Harry, I said I didn’t want to try whilst you were still in such a dark place,” Ginny said. “But these last couple of months you’ve almost been yourself again. And I think the time is right. It’s something I’ve been thinking about for weeks now.” 

Harry just looked at Ginny, emotions whirling through his mind at a hundred miles an hour.

“I can’t,” he said quietly, after a minute of silence. “Gin, I just can’t.”

Ginny looked crushed. 

“Harry, if this is fear that we’ll have another baby with Patau’s making you say this, you know the doctor said the chances of it happening were hundreds to one, and they’d give me another one of those amnio test things much earlier on this time to check.”

“It’s not that,” Harry said. Ginny opened her mouth clearly to counter this, but Harry quickly added, “Look, Ginny, I just can’t, okay, and I really don’t want an argument with you whilst sitting at our son’s graveside, so can you just drop it for now please?”

Ginny glared at him, her deep brown eyes full of hurt. Finally she said, “Fine.” Then she turned on the spot and Apparated away. Harry sighed, said a goodbye to Matthew, and followed, not looking forward to the row that was sure to follow. 

                                                                                               

*

“And how did you feel, looking at the baby?” Draco asked two days later at their session. Harry took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes tiredly. 

“Really bloody miserable, to be totally honest,” he said. “But I needed to reassure my friends that I could stand to be around them and Hugo more than I needed to run away, so I did it. And I don’t think it’s made me regress, or whatever the term is you shrinks use.”

“I agree,” Draco said. “And sadness is normal. I’d have been far more worried about your mental wellbeing had you not had an emotional reaction to that.”

“Ginny was really upset too,” Harry continued. “I mean, I know she dealt with losing Matthew much better than I did, but I saw then that she was still grieving in her own way as well. I said some really cruel things to her at the time when my depression was at its worst about how she must not have wanted him because she got over him so quickly, but she hasn’t, not fully. She’s just learnt to live again. And it’s made me realise that the pain is never going to completely go away, is it? I mean, it’ll ease, but there will always be days in my future where I feel sad, and this is all about accepting that and learning how to get on with my life.”

“I couldn’t have phrased it better myself.” Draco put down his quill. “Are you any closer to a decision on what to do about your marriage?”

“No,” Harry said. “I really don’t know what to do, and now she’s talking about having another baby, and it would be so easy to give in, and try for another child, and to pretend and lie to myself again, but now I’ve finally admitted to myself what I am and what I need, I honestly don’t think I could do it.”

“You’ve answered your own question in that statement,” Draco said. “I think you do know what you want to do. You just now have to accept it.”

“It’ll break her heart.”

“That’s not a justifiable excuse to continue to lie to her, Potter. You’re going to make her miserable by staying in a marriage you clearly don’t wish to be a part of any longer. You’ve already demonstrated that you simply cannot bury your head in the sand over this.”

Harry’s voice broke on the next two words. “I know.”

He was sure he didn’t imagine the momentary softening of Draco’s steely-grey eyes, or the almost involuntary twitch of the hand, as if he wanted to reach out to Harry to offer some comfort to him. But both of these were over in a second, however, and the cool look was firmly back in place once more. This confused Harry, and in his current state, it caused something to snap.

“Why are you ignoring me?”

“I’m not.” Draco definitely wasn’t meeting his eyes this time.

“Yes you are. Ever since Scorpius’ party, you’ve been off with me.”

“As usual, you’re imagining things, Potter.”

Great. Then shall we get the boys together again soon? They had fun playing last time.”

“No. I’m sorry, but that would be… unwise,” Draco replied, his jaw clenched.

“I don’t understand!” Harry said. “You said it yourself, Dra-er-Malfoy! The boys are family. And we got on too, didn’t we?”

“You’re my patient,” Draco snapped. “Nothing more. It’s not appropriate for us to socialise with one another.”

“But, I thought-”

“Potter, we are not friends, understand?” Draco interrupted, his voice icy calm. The tone left no room for ambiguity. 

“Fine,” Harry said, defeated. “I’ll see you on Thursday, then.” He picked up his sleeping potions from the table where Draco always left them at the end of a session, and left the room, feeling inexplicably rebuffed. Just before he let the door slam behind him, he could have sworn he heard a bunch of expletives muttered under Draco’s breath. 

                                                                                               

*

“IthinkImgoingtoleaveGinny.” Harry said all this extremely quickly while refusing to meet Hermione’s eye. Hermione’s hand paused on the Frappuccino she was just about to bring to her lips. Harry noticed her other hand tighten slightly around the sleeping Hugo in her free arm. 

It was two weeks since Harry had asked Draco whether Teddy and Scorpius could see each other again, and Harry had met Hermione in a Muggle coffee shop for a catch-up. He still found it hard to be around the baby (this was the fourth time he’d seen Hugo now), but it felt a little easier each time. Harry had even held the baby last time, albeit only for a very short period. 

“What’s brought this on?” Hermione said, alarmed. “Harry, if this is the depression talking, you really ought to reconsider, you know. You could make a huge mistake.”

“It’s not the depression. In fact, Hermione, I think being married is one of the causes,” Harry admitted. “You know I’m- you know- and I’m miserable, she’s miserable, and now she’s talking about the possibility of us trying for another baby, and I can’t do it. I can’t lie anymore.”

“Oh, Harry.” Hermione transferred Hugo to his pram and walked round to the table, giving Harry a hug. “Just make absolutely sure you’re sure before you do something like this, OK?”

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time, Hermione. I’m sure.”

Hermione nodded. “I did wonder. You’ve looked unhappy for a while. Even before what happened with Matthew. I just want you to be happy, Harry.”

“Oh God.” Harry ran a hand through his hair. “Ron is going to hate me, isn’t he?”

“He’s going to be upset, definitely. But hate? Harry, he loves you as much as any of his siblings, including Ginny. He’s not going to hate you for this.”

Harry checked his watch. “I really hope you’re right. I’ve got to get back to work. But thank you. For everything, Hermione. I mean that.”

“Anytime, Harry,” Hermione said. “And don’t worry. It will be alright.”

“You promise?”

Hermione held up three fingers. “Girl Guide’s honour.”

Harry snorted. “You weren’t in the Girl Guides.”

Hermione gave him a smile.

                                                                                               

*

With his plan to end his marriage confessed to Hermione, the realisation that Harry was, indeed, going to leave Ginny seemed a lot more real than it had before. Decision now finally made, Harry kept going over various scenarios in his mind about the best way to do it- should be take Ginny out for dinner, and discuss it there? No, it couldn’t be so public, not when emotions on both their parts were going to be high. Maybe he could arrange a weekend away- somewhere private, where they would be guaranteed to be alone. Harry decided against that quickly, thinking that Ginny would initially take it as if he was whisking her away for a romantic weekend, and he didn’t think he could do that to her. He quickly discounted a letter; his wife did not deserve to be treated with such contempt. Harry at least owed it to Ginny to do this face-to-face. No, he wanted to plan this so it was as painless for her as possible. He should have realised that, not once in his twenty-six years, had one of his plans ever worked out exactly the way he intended.

It was at the end of September that everything came to a head. 

Harry was lying in bed, reading some Muggle novel about a cryptologist investigating a murder in Paris that Hermione had given him for his birthday, when he heard the bedroom door open. He looked over and felt himself stiffen. And almost certainly not in the way Ginny had intended, for she was standing in the doorway, fiery hair cascading over her shoulders, and dressed in a black lace teddy, stockings and suspenders. He could clearly see her breasts through the material. _Oh god, no._

“Hey,” Ginny purred, as she made her way towards the bed. Harry swallowed audibly, which Ginny unfortunately took as an encouraging sign. She slid onto the bed next to him and ran her hand up his back, before kissing his neck.

“Gin, I’m trying to read,” Harry said desperately. Ginny scowled, then whipped the book out of his hand, before tossing it across the room.

“Ginny! _Accio book_!” Harry yelled, relieved that the wandless Summoning Charm worked. The novel felt like a shield in his hand.

“Harry, I’m going to make you forget about that book if it’s the last thing I do,” Ginny said, her voice hard and commanding. “Do you know how long it’s been since we have been intimate together? Fifteen months, Harry! Fifteen! I gave you time after… after what happened, as I knew you weren’t in the mood at all, but you’ve been better for a few months now, and I’m getting quite desperate. I want to make love with my husband. Isn’t that what you want, too?”

She didn’t wait for an answer, but fastened her mouth firmly over Harry’s.

 _Wrong_! screamed Harry’s brain, as she attempted to deepen the kiss by slipping her tongue into his mouth. _Wrong_! it screamed again, when she lifted one of his hands and placed it onto her breast, giving a soft moan of appreciation as his thumb accidentally brushed across her nipple. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_! it was yelling, as Ginny’s own hand traced lingering patterns over Harry’s T-shirted chest, and slipping lower, before pushing under the waistband of his pyjama bottoms…

“Ginny, stop!” Harry yelled, finally reacting to the onslaught. He shifted away from her, scooting to the end of the bed so he was balanced on the edge. He could hardly look at Ginny’s hurt, confused face, but he forced himself to. Too late, Harry noticed she was wearing red lipstick, which was now smeared onto her chin. He automatically brought his own hand up to his mouth and wiped away the lipstick that had been transferred to his own lips with the pad of his thumb. 

“Harry, what’s wrong?” Ginny asked, her voice close to tears.

“Nothing,” he lied. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

“Rubbish. Being tired wouldn’t mean you acted as if you couldn’t bear for me to even touch you like that! I deserve the truth, Harry. What’s going on?”

This was not how Harry wanted to tell her. Not like this, when she was half-dressed and clearly trying to seduce him. But what good was it doing putting it off? If he still had any doubts about whether splitting up was the right thing to do, Harry knew they’d been eradicated by his reaction to Ginny’s cajolery. No more pretending. No more lies. That’s what he’d said. It was time to make good on that. Harry came to a decision.

“Put some clothes on, then we’ll talk,” he said.

                                                                                               

*

Five minutes later, Ginny emerged from the bathroom dressed in a T-shirt and a pair of Harpies tracksuit bottoms, her hair pulled into a loose ponytail and her face clean of make-up. She was looking incredibly wary. 

“What’s going on?” she asked Harry again. Harry didn’t even know how he was going to say this. All he knew was his hands were trembling slightly. 

“Sit down. Please,” he said, and Ginny did. She perched on the end of the bed, looking anything but relaxed. 

“Harry, you’re scaring me,” Ginny said. “Just tell me. What’s wrong?”

“I…” Harry took a deep breath. “Circe, this is difficult. Look, Ginny, I want a divorce.”

Clearly, whatever Ginny had expected Harry to say, it wasn’t that. Harry himself wasn’t so sure he’d meant to say it quite so bluntly. Then Ginny did the thing he’d least expected her to do. She began to laugh. 

“I take it that was meant to be a joke,” she said. Harry didn’t say anything. He just continued to look at Ginny, as what he was saying to her began to sink in. The smile slid off Ginny’s face and she visibly paled. 

“It’s the depression, isn’t it?” Ginny said. “You’re still ill. It’s making you behave like you’re out of your mind.”

“You were just saying I was better not ten minutes ago,” Harry replied. “Enough for you to want to try again for a baby, anyway. And I am better. Not completely, but sufficient for me to know my own mind. And I’ve been agonising over this for months, Gin. I’m so sorry.”

“We’ll go and see a Healer at St Mungo’s, not a counsellor,” Ginny continued, completely ignoring what Harry had just said. “There must be something they can give you- a potion, or something, to help you get normal again. We should have done that in the first place. You were right, Harry. Malfoy was a bad choice for you; he’s poisoned your mind.”

“This has nothing to do with Malfoy!” Harry yelled, causing Ginny to jump. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to shout. But, Ginny, please listen to me. Open your eyes. Things weren’t right between us even before you got pregnant, but it was just easier to ignore then. And with everyone else I’ve been getting better- Ron, Hermione, Teddy… but you and me- Gin, we’re further apart now than ever.”

“Because you’ve been unwell!” Ginny exclaimed.

“Not just because of that,” Harry said, in as a calm a tone as he could manage. 

“Then tell me why! Because I’m not about to give up on my marriage without a damn good reason,” Ginny said, and Harry could see tear tracks on her cheeks glittering in the lamplight now. He felt like a complete bastard. “Don’t you love me anymore?”

“I do love you,” Harry said. “You have to believe me. And the very last thing I want to do is hurt you. But I… Merlin, Ginny, this is hard to say. I’m not in love with you. The way a husband should feel for his wife. I love you in the same way I love Hermione, or Ron. As a true, dear friend.” 

Harry waited for the shouting, or the screaming. He even expected a slap in the face, or a Bat-Bogey Hex. He didn’t expect total, catatonic silence. “Ginny, did you hear me?”

“Of course I fucking heard you. I’m sitting two feet away,” Ginny snapped. It was her crass language that told Harry just how upset she was; Ginny hardly ever swore. 

“Then what…”

“What do you want me to say, Harry? You’ve just told me you’re not in love with me and you want a divorce. Tell me, how am I supposed to react to that?”

Harry noticed his own cheeks were wet now.

“I don’t know.”

Ginny stared into his face for a long minute, apparently searching for something. Whether or not she found what she was looking for, Harry didn’t know, but when Ginny spoke again, her voice was a forced calm. 

“Were you ever in love with me?”

Harry opened his mouth to say yes, of course he had been, but his vision caught sight of a very faint scar on the back of his hand. _I must not tell lies_. And Harry was so very, very tired of lying.

“I tried to be. I wanted to be. So badly,” he said slowly.

“But you weren’t.” Ginny’s voice had lost the forced calm now. Her face looked bloodless. “Yet you married me anyway. Oh God. Harry, what are you not telling me?” 

_I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies._

“I… Merlin, Ginny. I… I’m gay.”

Ginny couldn’t have looked more shocked if Harry had punched her. Her eyes widened and her mouth fell open. She then clearly tried to talk, but no sound would come out. Instead she shook her head furiously scrambled away from Harry, climbing off the bed and backing away, head still shaking its denial as her mouth opened and closed rhythmically like a suffocating fish. She didn’t stop walking until her back hit the wall. Then she slid down the wall, brought her knees up to her chest and buried her head in them. 

Harry climbed off the bed and crossed the bedroom to Ginny. He got as far as crouching down and reaching out an arm to her before he heard Ginny growl, “Get the fuck away from me, Harry.”

“Right.” Harry withdrew his arm and he stood back up, before perching on the bed again. “For what it’s worth, I really am sorry.”

“That means precisely nothing to me,” Ginny replied through thick tears. “I’ve just found out my entire marriage is an absolute farce, that I’m not even the _sex_ you want, and you think your apologies matter? I would tell you to shove them up your arse, but I expect you’d enjoy it.” She looked up at Harry then. Her face was no longer white. It was red and blotchy, her eyes puffy and swollen. “Tell me, Harry. Did you know you were- you liked men- before we married?” Harry nodded. “Then why did you marry me? I _loved_ you, you bastard! I still do!”

“I wanted a family,” Harry said. “I wanted a wife, kids, and a normal life. I thought that, if I pretended long enough, then I would be happy. I didn’t want to be gay.”

“And you don’t mind it so much now, is that it?” Ginny replied. “Why, Harry? What’s changed? Are you having an affair, is that it? Are you leaving me for some bloke?”

How ironic the situation was, Harry thought. Not once, during any of Harry’s little ‘working holidays’ to Romania, or ‘nights out with the boys’ when Charlie was visiting England did Ginny ever suspect anything. But now he was being accused of adultery, when for the first time in years he was finally being honest.

“No,” Harry said truthfully. He wasn’t going to go into the past with Charlie; there was no reason to. That didn’t stop him phrasing his next sentence very carefully, however. He wanted to be honest, but that didn’t mean he wanted to open a can of Flobberworms. “I swear, I’ve been faithful to you throughout our marriage, Gin. But I’ve just finally realised I can’t pretend anymore. And I can’t give you what you deserve. I am sorry.”

“Stop saying you’re sorry,” Ginny said. “Harry, I really need to not be near you right now.”

“Er, sure,” Harry said. “I’ll, er, sleep in the spare room, shall I?”

“No, Harry,” Ginny said. “Our marriage is clearly over. I’m not about to beg you to keep me, when you obviously don’t want me, so I won’t stay in this dump of a house any longer. I’m going to my parents’ house.” She stood up, Summoned a rucksack from the wardrobe, and tossed a bunch of clothes into it. Then without another word or a backwards glance, she pushed out of the room and tore down the stairs. Moments later Harry heard the roaring of flames that indicated Ginny had disappeared into the Floo. 

Emotions flooded Harry. Sadness, grief, overwhelming guilt… but also a new one. An emotion Harry had not felt now for months, if not years. Freedom. The turmoil of conflicting emotions was too strong and Harry sank to the floor, covered his face in his hands, and wept.

                                                                                               

*

He didn’t know how long he sat on his bedroom floor, but he did know, once the tears had dried up, that he really needed to talk to someone. No, not someone. Draco. Not really thinking about what he was doing, Harry slung a warm travelling cloak over his shoulders and turned on the spot, Apparating to the gates of Malfoy Manor. Shivering slightly from the cold September night air, his extreme mental exhaustion, and the adrenaline flowing through his body, he pulled the cloak tighter around himself, drew his wand and cast _Lumos_ , and started the long walk towards the Manor. 

Only once he arrived at the heavy wooden door did Harry realise what he was doing. He pointed the lit tip of his wand at his watch he realised it was half past one in the morning. Besides, hadn’t Draco made it perfectly clear that he and Harry were not to see each other outside of their sessions? Feeling ridiculously foolish, Harry turned around and began to make his way back down the driveway.

“Draco, I do believe that for once the Muggles have trumped us,” a voice Harry didn’t recognise rang out in the otherwise silent night. Harry acted quickly and darted behind a tree. He peered through and saw two balls of light, clearly coming from wands, about twenty feet from him. He quickly extinguished his own wand light with a whispered, “ _Nox_ ,” and stood still.

“I can’t imagine what you mean,” Draco drawled in that familiar bored-sounding voice Harry had come to know so well in recent months.

“I mean, Draco, cars,” said the other man. “Muggles would simply drive to your door, rather than hike towards it. It’s utterly uncivilised to make your date walk for the best part of a mile simply because one is not keyed into the wards and therefore cannot Apparate in. Why, I should leave right now if you cannot act like a gentleman on a first date.”

“For one thing, Martin, we’ve both drunk enough wine in which to drown a Niffler tonight so I expect driving one of those cars would be lethal,” Draco said, and Harry was sure this other man- this Martin- would have missed the strained note in his voice. Draco clearly had not told his companion about Astoria’s death. “Secondly, if you were to leave now, I wouldn’t be able to do this, would I?” Draco pushed Martin up against the nearest tree, and from his vantage point Harry could quite clearly see the two engaging in some heated kissing. 

Draco gave a small moan of pleasure and threaded his fingers into Martin’s hair, whose hands slid down and cupped Draco’s arse, pulling Draco’s body closer against his own. Harry felt his cheeks heat, and he was suddenly filled with a desperate need to get away from what was clearly something he was not meant to be seeing. He turned and hurried down the drive as quickly and quietly as possible, being careful not to distract Draco, who would probably never want to see him again if he knew Harry was on his property acting like some kind of twisted voyeur in the early hours of the morning. 

He reached the gates of Malfoy Manor and turned on the spot to Apparate. Not home yet though; Harry couldn’t face returning to the home he and Ginny had shared since he was nineteen, and which was still full of her belongings. Despite the late hour and his exhaustion, Harry needed to think, so he Apparated to the Embankment and began to wander aimlessly, not paying attention to where he was going as he thought back over the night’s events. He’d done it. He’d ended his marriage, and more than likely broken Ginny’s heart in the process. But he’d done it. For once in his adult life, he’d done what was right, rather than what was easy. And now Ginny was free. Free to find someone who could love her, truly love her, in the way that she deserved to be loved, someone who would give everything of himself to her and not hold back. The way that she had loved him.

Guilty tears leaked from his eyes again as he stuffed his freezing hands into his pocket and crossed the Thames for the umpteenth time that evening. And he did feel extremely guilty, because as much as he knew he had devastated Ginny, he was certain that he’d made the right choice. He also felt guilty for another reason. Because try as he might, Harry could not get the image of Draco Malfoy with that Martin bloke out of his mind. In amongst all the high emotion that had dominated the evening, there was a small part of Harry’s brain that decided the sight of Draco bathed in moonlight, kissing the life out of another man, was really rather alluring. And that was most certainly not the sort of thought that Harry needed right now.

Checking his watch again, he discovered it was now four in the morning. Glad he didn’t have work in the morning, and desperately needing his bed now, Harry checked for passing Muggles and Disapparated to the front of Grimmauld Place. And stopped dead. 

Ron was sitting on the doorstep. And his face was murderous. 

“I think we need to talk,” he said.

Harry nodded silently, and opened the door.


	7. Charlie Returns

Feeling as if his feet were lead, Harry stepped into the pitch-black hallway of Grimmauld Place, and pulled out his wand, lighting the lamps on the walls. Ron followed him in, and now, bathed in light other than the orange halo from the street lights, Harry could see that his face was white, and as gaunt as Harry had ever seen it.

“Coffee?” he offered lamely, in lieu of anything articulate to say. In all honesty, Harry wasn’t sure how to react to this, or, indeed, what Ron was going to do to him. Clearly, Ron knew what had happened between him and Ginny that evening; why else would he be here, in Harry’s home, in the early hours of the morning. Without waiting for a reply, Harry turned from that hall and walked down the steps that led to the kitchen. Ron still hadn’t said a word to him. 

The silence continued as Harry went through the motions of making coffee. Finally he added milk to two cups, poured in the coffee, and passed one of the cups to Ron, who took it without a word. Instead he continued to stare at Harry with disbelieving eyes. Eventually he said, “Is it true?”

“Which part?”

Ron’s face turned crimson. 

“Take your pick, Harry. The part about you asking my sister for a divorce. The part where you told her you’d probably have preferred it if she had a cock. Any of this ringing any bells at all?”

Harry didn’t feel he was in any position to take offence to Ron’s blunt words. Instead he braced himself for taking the brunt of Ron’s oncoming anger, and nodded. 

“Whatever Ginny told you, it’s all true, Ron. I’m so sorry.”

He was expecting a whack in the face from a right hook. Or, at the very least, a hex. Harry especially thought he would be yelled at to within an inch of his life. He was not expecting Ron, his six-foot three, fourteen stone, hot-headed best friend to be wearing a look of devastation, accompanied by a single tear trickling down his freckled cheek. 

“You’ve lived like this for eight years,” he said, voice thick with emotion. “Harry, why did you do this to her? To yourself?”

“I just wanted to be normal,” Harry replied, a lump rising painfully in his own throat. 

“You’ve never been normal,” Ron said. “You’ve always been extraordinary. Faking your sexual orientation for the best part of a decade hasn’t changed that at all. And to know that you’d think we’d hate you if we knew you were, you know, that you fancied blokes… Harry, mate, that hurts the most in all this mess. That you didn’t trust me.”

Harry just stared at Ron. This wasn’t the reaction he expected at all. He didn’t quite know how to respond; he’d been so sure of an explosive response.

“I should hate you, you know,” Ron said. “Ginny is in bits. Mum firecalled me in a right state, unable to calm her down. She wanted me to find you. Punch your lights out for her I think.” He looked at Harry through tired-looking blue eyes. “I really fucking should, and it’s no less than you deserve. But I can’t, Harry. I’m really trying to understand how this has all gone tits up quite so badly, but I’m not going to hate you for something you have no control over. I just wish you’d left my sister out of all this. She could have found someone who deserved her. She could be happily married to a man who truly loved her and wanted to be with her for her, not just as someone to have a family with and to help keep up appearances. And you were a selfish bastard for taking that away from her, for manipulating and controlling her life like that.”

Harry noticed that, despite Ron’s words, his hands were balled into fists, and he knew it was taking restraint not to take a swing at him. 

“I really thought I- we- could be happy,” he said. “And when we found out Matthew was coming, it was like everything slot into place. And then… and then we, we lost him, and-” The painful lump that had been in his throat was spilling over now. Harry tried to hold it in, but he was exhausted, the night had been extremely emotional, and Harry had broken Ginny’s heart. A sob escaped from his chest, and Harry buried his head in his hands as he choked out the final words through gasping breaths. “- and I just can’t lie any longer. I’m so tired of lying, Ron.” 

He felt Ron’s hand grip his shoulder.

“And if Matthew hadn’t have died? What then, Harry? Would you still be together?”

“Yes. And I’d still be gay, and I’d still be lying to everyone.”

“I will always be your best friend, Harry. Even after this,” Ron said. “I love you like a brother. That hasn’t changed. But I really can’t be around you right now, because I’m this close-” he put his thumb and forefinger together, leaving just a slither of a gap between them- “from doing what Ginny wants me to do, and punching you in the nose. And you’d better hope Ginny comes through this, because at the moment she’s at my parents’ house sobbing her heart out.” Harry looked up at Ron then, and his face was no longer crimson. Indeed, it had the pallid, slightly ill look of earlier back on it. “All brothers want to protect their sisters. They want to make sure the bloke she ends up with will treat her well, and worry in case he won’t. I never, ever thought I would have to worry about that with you. Of all the men out there, all the blokes she could have ended up with, you were the only one I trusted explicitly to treat her in the way she deserved to be treated. And you have betrayed that trust.”

He stood up from the table then, pushing away his untouched cup of coffee. Harry automatically stood too.

“I still want to hit you,” Ron said.

“I know.”

“You deserve it.”

“Yes.”

Ron stepped forwards then, and surprised Harry by pulling him into a tight hug, which Harry returned.

“Take care,” Ron muttered into Harry’s shoulder, and they broke apart. “I’ll speak to you soon, OK? But right now, I need to be with my family.” A family that almost certainly no longer included Harry. 

Harry watched him go, feeling both better and worse for Ron’s visit, and wondering if Ron would have been so restrained if he knew the whole truth about Harry’s life before he and Ginny married. 

He went up the stairs to bed but, as he got to his bedroom door, he changed his mind and headed for the spare room instead. Sleeping in a room containing his and Ginny’s bed- one which still smelt of her- and a room with all her personal belongings in was simply not an option. He didn’t regret his decision to end his marriage; on the contrary, he knew undoubtedly he’d done the right thing. But that didn’t lessen the heavy heart and extreme guilt he was now carrying. 

He slipped into the cool sheets of the spare bed, placed his wand on the table, and took off his glasses. Then, as an afterthought, he pulled off the gold band from the fourth finger of his left hand and placed it next to his wand. He’d not removed the ring once since his wedding day. The skin where the ring had been was paler than the rest of his finger, and band had worn a small ridge into the flesh of his finger. A reminder that, even if marriages can be ended with just a few words and a name signed on parchment, they leave behind tokens, signs of permanence. 

His hand felt strangely and unnaturally light without the ring, despite it weighing hardly anything at all. Harry flexed his fingers a few times, stroking the now bare skin of his ring finger. 

The sky outside was tinged with a faint pink from the very early morning sun before he finally fell asleep. 

                                                                                               

*

Over the next few days, Harry tried to continue as normal. He attended his bi-weekly sessions with Draco (who was still acting coolly towards Harry; even more so, Harry thought, since Harry had told him about his and Ginny’s break-up), went to work, came home, ate, then watched some telly or read, until it was time for bed (he was still sleeping in the spare room). He saw Hermione most days, who was staying completely neutral (and she alone, besides Harry, knew the full story). On the last time she’d visited, Ron had come with her, although he had said very little and was awkward with Harry. He’d handed Harry a letter from Ginny as he and Hermione left. Harry opened it quickly.

_Harry,_

_I’ve moved back in with Mum and Dad for the time being. Please can you bring my stuff over? They don’t hate you. They don’t understand what’s happened- none of us do- but I don’t think they want you out their lives permanently. They’re upset more than angry._

_Can you come over to The Burrow on the ninth? The day is going to be horrible enough for everyone without us two not being able to stand to be in the same room as each other. Plus, despite what you’ve done, I don’t want you to be alone on that day._

_I’ve arranged for us to meet with a solicitor firm in Diagon Alley next week to discuss divorce proceedings. Meet me outside Blavo and Co, opposite Potages, at eleven o’clock on Wednesday._

_-Ginny._

Harry’s heart lurched painfully. The anniversary of Matthew’s birth and death, the ninth of October, was in just three days’ time. He had wanted to spend the date drinking Firewhisky and pretending it wasn’t happening, but knew this would be a huge step backwards in his recovery, and Draco would have his balls for doing so. Instead he sent back a note agreeing to come to The Burrow, quite convinced it was a bad idea.

Harry didn’t sleep at all the night before the anniversary, and got up at five that morning. He showered and dressed silently, ate nothing, and only managed a black coffee to drink. His stomach was roiling. At ten in the morning he grabbed the shrunken down bags containing Ginny’s belongings which he’d packed up for her, threw some Floo powder into the fireplace, stepped into the emerald flames, and called out the Weasley address. 

He always had hated travelling by Floo. Harry stumbled out of the fireplace at The Burrow, coughing and spluttering, and brushing ash from his clothing. However, for the first time ever, his arrival was not greeted warmly by the other Weasleys. Ginny, as to be expected, ignored him completely, managing only a small ‘thank you’ when he handed her bags over to her, Arthur shook his hand and smiled but his eyes held none of the warmth and fondness they normally did for him, and Molly simply said, “Hello, Harry, dear,” in a robotic voice and made no attempt to pull him into the bone-crushing hugs he’d been accustomed to. 

Bill, dressed sombrely in black robes made of velvet, nodded to him in recognition, Percy ignored him completely, George eyed him suspiciously, and next to George stood…

Harry faltered. This was not happening. Not today, of all days.

“Hello, Charlie,” he said, his voice sounding like it didn’t belong to him. 

“How are you, Harry?” Charlie replied, holding out a hand for him to shake. “It’s been too long.” Harry took Charlie’s hand; Charlie’s grip was firm and warm, his blue eyes boring into his. Of all the days when Harry did not want to have to deal with Charlie, today was it. 

“Ron and Hermione will be here shortly,” Molly said, breaking the moment between Charlie and Harry. Harry quickly pulled his hand away and placed it in the pocket of his trousers. “Ah, here they are now!” 

A rumbling of a car engine signalled their arrival, and Ron climbed out of the passenger side of a red Ford Focus before helping Hermione get their children out of the car. A minute later both were in the living room. 

“Charlie!” Ron cried in surprise as he spotted his older brother. A huge grin spread across his face. “It’s good to see you, mate.” He sprang forwards to hug his second-eldest brother. Hermione caught Harry’s eyes and gave him a worried look. 

“Harry, can you help me check something on the car please?” she said quickly. Harry took the hint and followed her out. 

“What is Charlie doing here?” Hermione hissed, as she opened the bonnet and pretended to be showing Harry something on the engine. “Please, Harry, tell me you’re not back with him?”

“Of course I’m bloody well not!” Harry said. “Merlin, Hermione! I had no idea he was even in the bloody country until five minutes ago. I’m just as shocked to see him as you.”

Hermione studied his face for a long moment, before nodding. 

“How are you?” she asked. “And don’t give me, ‘fine’, Harry, because I know you’re not.”

“I feel like complete shit, to be completely honest with you. I’ll be happier once today is over,” Harry said. “I wish Malfoy would have given me something, just to take the edge off. Today is going to be a nightmare.”

When Harry had asked Draco for a potion or something, just for today, to help him cope, or block out the pain, Draco had flat out refused, telling Harry that a major part of his recovery was to face these sort of events head-on, not hide behind them. “It would be a massive step backwards,” Draco had said. “Don’t you think I wish I could hide behind potions every time the anniversary of Astoria’s death rolls around? I know how you feel, Potter, truly I do, but it’s best to deal with this. You’ll thank me later.”

Maybe Harry would, he thought, but not yet. For at the moment he’d do anything to not have to deal with his soon-to-be ex-wife, her family, his ex-lover, and the anniversary of death of his son, all on the same fucking day. It was too much. Hermione seemed to know how he was feeling, however, and took his hand in hers, squeezed it tightly, and led him back into The Burrow. 

Molly had made tea in their absence, and handed Harry a cup. He had never felt so awkward at The Burrow before in his life, not even the time when Arthur had caught Harry and Ginny with his hand inside Ginny’s knickers at their engagement party, after he’d drunk way too much champagne. He took the cup automatically from her. 

For a few minutes there was silence, except for the sound of tea being drunk and the sound of laughter coming from up the stairs, where Fleur was watching the Weasley children. As better as Harry was around children now, that sound was too much to bear. 

“Let’s get this over with,” he sighed, putting the cup down and heading for the garden. The rest of the Weasleys followed. 

The gravesite was, as always, upsetting, but for once it was far from sombre in appearance. Today there was a huge helium-filled foil balloon in the shape of a number one next to the grave, as well as a few streamers. Molly placed a small cake with a single lit candle in the centre onto the grave, and began to sing “Happy Birthday”, which everyone else joined in with. By the end of the song there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen; Ginny was sobbing into her mother’s shoulder, George was crying quietly whilst placing one hand on his twin’s grave next to his nephew’s, and even Percy had tears running down his long pointed nose. Hermione was standing very close to him, holding his hand protectively, for which he was grateful. 

He started when he felt another hand on his back, and flew out of the way when he realised the hand belonged to Charlie.

“What are you doing?” he hissed under his breath. “Get. Back.” He felt the hand that was resting on him leave as Charlie heeded Harry’s words, but Harry could feel the other man’s eyes boring a hole into his head. Harry had a bad feeling about this. A very bad feeling.

Harry continued to ignore Charlie as birthday cards, flowers, and tokens of memorial were placed onto Matthew’s grave, and Ginny read out a poem she had found. He declined to speak himself, feeling that it would be completely inappropriate, and deciding instead to come back and talk to Matthew privately at a later date. 

“Look after him,” Harry said hoarsely to Fred’s grave, as they walked back into the house. He didn’t want to stay; he felt incredibly awkward still, he was feeling very upset, and the unexpected arrival of Charlie- surely not a coincidence given the timing of him showing up and Harry and Ginny splitting- was almost enough to push him over the edge. Harry thought he’d like nothing more than to grab a bottle of Firewhisky, go home, drink the entire thing, and pass out on the sofa until this hideous day was well and truly over. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t allow himself to be in that place again, the overwhelming numbness that he’d felt for the first few months after Matthew’s death. He couldn’t be that person again. All of this- Harry getting better, finally finding the courage to be true to himself and to Ginny… it would mean nothing if he allowed himself to put one toe back into his former shell of himself. He couldn’t do it to Ron and Hermione, Rose and Teddy, even Draco, to whom Harry had so much to be grateful. And he couldn’t do it to himself. 

So Harry forced himself to stay, sat on one of the Weasleys’ dining room chairs in the corner of the room, eating an egg and cress sandwich that felt like cardboard in his mouth. He glared at the table of food: sandwiches with at least six different fillings, sausage rolls, little sausages on sticks, cheese and pineapple, an assortment of cupcakes, huge flagons of cool pumpkin juice… Harry suddenly felt a wave of explosive anger rise in him. Did Molly think this was a celebration, or something? They were commemorating the anniversary of his son’s death, not having a fucking birthday party. All that was missing, Harry thought furiously, was a large, garish birthday cake, which would complete this lying charade perfectly. 

He slammed his barely-touched plate of food onto the sideboard and stormed out into the garden. Hermione made to follow him, but Harry shook his head, and with a concerned look, she sat back down. He slunk into the garden, heading for the orchard he and Ron used to play Quidditch in as boys. Charlie was already there, however, leaning against the thick trunk of an old oak tree, cigarette between his lips. Harry cursed under his breath and turned to leave, but Charlie had already spotted him. 

“Harry!”

Harry suddenly felt very tired.

“What is it, Charlie?”

“How have you been?”

Harry’s anger, which hadn’t really ebbed since he stormed out of The Burrow, suddenly surged through him. 

“How do you think I’ve been, Charlie? I’m recovering from severe depression and borderline alcohol dependency, I’ve lost my son, and still have to take a strong potion every night just to be able to sleep without nightmares about his death and how it’s all my fault he died. I’ve ended my marriage and broken your sister’s heart, I’ve upset the rest of your family who have been nothing but decent to be since the day I met them, and now my ex is here talking to me when I just wanted him to leave me the fuck alone for the rest of my miserable life!” Harry had yelled all this rather loudly, and he noticed that he was trembling. He could feel his eyes begin to burn again. Sod it, he thought. It wouldn’t be the first time Charlie had seen him cry. “Why are you here?” he asked eventually, voice lower this time. 

“It’s a difficult time for my family. I thought I should come,” Charlie replied. Harry snorted. 

“Bollocks. If you didn’t come when we first lost Matthew, after I know your mum begged you to, then why would you come now? It’s just a coincidence you found out about Gin and me separating a few days ago, is it?”

“I’m not here to cause trouble, if that’s what you think,” Charlie said. “I just… fuck, Harry. I miss you, alright? And I just wanted to see you were OK.” He reached out a hand and tentatively stoked Harry’s arm. Harry closed his eyes at the touch, fighting the memories it dragged up. 

“Don’t,” he said softly. “Charlie, please don’t.” He realised belatedly that they were standing in the same place they had been eight years ago, when Charlie had first asked him to come to Romania with him. He barely recognised himself from his eighteen-year-old ego. Charlie removed his hand. Harry could see the conflict in his face. He suddenly felt a flutter of panic in his stomach. “Whatever you’re going to say, this is not the time or place to say it,” Harry muttered. “I’m going to go back into the house, I’m going to say goodbye, and then I’m going to go home. Alone. If you want to talk, we do so in a public place.” _Where I won’t be tempted to do something I’ll end up regretting_. 

“Fine. When?” Charlie asked. Harry thought for a few moments. He had a meeting with the solicitor Ginny had chosen in two days’ time; he might as well get this over with after that.

“This Wednesday. One o’clock. There’s a Muggle pub only a couple of minutes’ walk from St Mungo’s- it’s called the King’s Arms, just off Roupell Street which is round the corner from the hospital. We’ll talk then.” Charlie looked like he was going to attempt to touch Harry again, so he swiftly moved out of the way, turned and, without another glance backwards, walked towards The Burrow. 

Neither he nor Charlie noticed a pair of pale blue eyes watching them from behind a tree.

                                                                                               

*

On Wednesday morning, Harry dressed in a set of smart, formal robes and Apparated to the alleyway behind the Leaky Cauldron. He pulled out his wand, counted three bricks up, two across, and tapped his wand. The wall opened, revealing the Alley to him and he stepped through, feeling like a bag of nerves. 

He arrived outside the solicitor’s at exactly five minutes to eleven, and saw Ginny was already waiting for him. 

“Er, hi,” he said lamely as he approached. Ginny gave him a slight nod in recognition. 

“Let’s get this over with then,” she said. She looked incredibly sad. 

Harry opened the door, and waited for Ginny to enter before walking in himself. 

“Mr and Mrs Potter! Right on time!” said a man, who introduced himself as Mr Blavo. A bald, squat man with egg yolk on his brown tie and a gap in his shirt where the buttons didn’t quite fit properly, Harry wasn’t quite sure what to make of him. But he seemed friendly enough as he led them into his office. 

“Coffee?” Mr Blavo asked. Both Harry and Ginny declined. “Okay then. Mr Potter- may I call you Harry?” Harry nodded. “Harry then. Your wife here contacted me to arrange a meeting, and I understand that she is petitioning for divorce. Is that correct?”

“Yes,” Harry said. 

“Okay then,” said Mr Blavo. “I need to see your marriage certificate please.”

Ginny opened her bag and took out the scroll of parchment and handed it over. Harry swallowed hard. He noticed Ginny’s wedding ring was still on her finger. He rubbed his naked finger nervously. 

“We want this to be amicable,” Ginny said. “I’m not about to drag this through the courts and have it in the Press. I want this settled as quickly, and as quietly, as possible, without involving lawyers.”

“We can file a petition to divorce here, if you both agree to the terms and neither of you wish to contest,” said Mr Blavo. “Which means we can proceed straight to an application for a Decree Nisi. I will send the application to the Wizengamot today. Now, I understand there are no children from the marriage to consider?”

Ginny’s eyes shone brightly at that, and Harry had to look away.

“No,” he mumbled. “No children.”

“That makes it much more straight forward,” the solicitor continued. “You will have to agree on how your assets will be divided, of course, and this will be forwarded with your application for a Decree Nisi. Due to the fewer number of magical divorces-” Ginny glared at Harry “- than Muggle ones, the process is much quicker and simpler than it would be in the Muggle world, even though the legal process is very similar. The Wizengamot will look over your application, and issue the Decree Nisi if they are happy with the terms. This usually takes about two weeks in our world.”

“And then we’re divorced?” Harry asked. It seemed extremely abrupt. 

“Not quite, no,” Mr Blavo said. “The Decree Nisi is basically legal notice that the marriage will end, unless evidence of good reason not to proceed comes to light. Once you receive your Decree Nisi, you will need to apply for the Decree Absolute. After a period of about eight weeks, and if no further intervention occurs, you will receive this, which is the legal termination of your marriage, and you will both then be divorced.”

Ten weeks. Harry calculated it quickly in his head; today was the eleventh of October. That meant he and Ginny would be divorced by Christmas. It all felt very strange. 

Mr Blavo pulled a form from his desk drawer and dipped a quill into black ink. 

“Now, what are the grounds on which you are petitioning for divorce?” he asked them both.

Somehow, Harry didn’t think _husband’s closet homosexuality_ was going to be appropriate, so was grateful when Ginny said, “Unreasonable Behaviour. On Harry’s part, I might add.” He didn’t even mind that the record would show this was his fault. It was the perfect truth, after all. 

“In these cases, we do recommend counselling to see if the marriage can be saved,” the solicitor replied, looking at them both in turn. Ginny scowled.

“Maybe you missed the part where I said ‘Unreasonable’,” she said, rather hotly. “I’m not going into details, but there is no way our relationship can, or will, survive. Harry and I cannot remain married. And that’s the end of the matter.”

Harry could see that the man was dying to know just what had happened between Ginny Weasley and her childhood sweetheart, the famous Harry Potter, the wizarding world’s Golden Couple, and he was incredibly grateful that the solicitor’s professionalism and his vow of confidentially bound him to keep quiet. Instead he simply nodded solemnly, and wrote something down on the parchment. 

“Let’s now discuss the division of your assets,” said Mr Blavo. “The marital home. I understand you’re the one still living there, Harry. Do you intend to sell and split the assets, or are you going to buy Mrs Potter out of her share?”

“It’s Harry’s house,” Ginny said quickly. “It was left to him by his godfather, and I don’t want it.”

“You know, as his wife, you’re entitled to half-”

“It’s Harry’s,” Ginny repeated. “The house stays with him. Next item.”

It took well over an hour for Harry and Ginny to discuss the rest of their assets and come to an agreement. But eventually they came to a financial agreement they were both content with, and both signed their petition. 

“The Decree Nisi will be sent by owl to you both within a fortnight,” said Mr Blavo. “Come and see me again when you receive it, and we’ll take the next step.” He stood then, as did Harry and Ginny, and they both shook his hand. “Good day to you both.”

“Good day,” they repeated, and filed out of the slightly dark office into the bright sunlight of Diagon Alley. 

“Well…” said Harry. “That was… um, awkward.” He attempted a smile. It was met with a cold glare. 

“I want this divorce to be as free of animosity as possible, because I have no inclination to have our private life dragged through the Wizengamot any more than it needs to be,” Ginny said. “But be under no illusions, Harry. I hate you for what you’ve done to me, and you are not forgiven for this. Not now, not ever.” Then she turned on her heels and strode away. Harry sighed, knowing he deserved the bollocking. He checked his watch and swore. It was twenty past one; he had been due to meet Charlie twenty minutes ago. He’d planned to walk from the solicitor’s to the pub, as it was only about half a mile, but he was already late so he dashed to the nearest Apparition point and turned on the spot, arriving in a small alley he knew was nearby. Then, half-running, half-walking, he dashed to the pub’s entrance and pushed open the door. 

The pub was mainly empty; unsurprising given it was midweek and away from the tourist traps of central London. There were a few couples, a man with greying hair and a horrible brown checked shirt nursing a Guinness whilst reading the paper, and an old woman sitting by the fake log fire doing her knitting. Charlie was instantly noticeable, sitting in one of the booths at the far end of the pub, his red hair standing out against the dark wood décor. 

“Hi,” Harry said, approaching the booth. Charlie noticed him approaching and immediately relaxed.

“I thought you’d stood me up,” he said, giving Harry a warm smile. “I ordered you a pint. Hope that’s OK?”

“I’m not drinking alcohol any longer,” Harry reminded him. “I’ll just go and order a Coke or something. You have that.” He turned to walk away, but heard Charlie call him back.

“You might want to change,” he said with a grin. Harry looked down and realised he was still dressed in formal wizard clothing. Cursing himself silently, he slipped into the gents’ and removed his robes, revealing a simple shirt and trousers. Inconspicuous and definitely Muggle-appropriate. He shrunk the robe down and slipped it into his pocket. 

He stopped at the bar on his way back to the table and ordered his drink, then took his seat opposite Charlie. He felt a faint breeze blow over him and he shuddered, standing up again to close the open window next to their table. 

“I’m not used to Muggle pubs,” Charlie said. “It’s weird. How did you find this place, anyway?”

“I’ve been coming to St Mungo’s frequently for six months now,” Harry replied. “I walk past it twice a week, as it’s on my way home. Never been in though. It was the first place I could think of to meet.” He sipped his drink and pulled a slight face. Too sweet, and the gas in the bubbles was making his stomach feel uncomfortable. "Lunch?”

Charlie gave him a huge smile and grabbed the menu. Part of Harry’s brain screamed that this was a terrible idea, that this actually looked like a date, but he didn’t listen. They were just going to talk. Nothing else. He picked up his menu and began to read. 

“When they say ‘surf and turf’, what do they mean?” Charlie asked. 

“Erm, steak and scampi, I think,” Harry replied. “Never had it though. Think I’ll have steak and ale pie and mash.” He took Charlie’s food order (Charlie had opted for the ‘turf’ without the ‘surf’, after Harry assured him the meat came from beef cattle and not dragon) and ordered at the bar. “Cannons are doing OK this season,” Charlie said loudly as Harry walked back to the table. Harry made a gesture with his hands in an attempt to shush him. “Although their Seeker is a twat. Did you read about that Snitch drop last weekend against the Arrows? I swear, you could have caught it at eleven.”

“Charlie. Muggles,” Harry hissed, taking another sip of his drink. 

They continued to make awkward small talk until their meals arrived. They ate in silence, Harry uncomfortably aware that Charlie was staring at him more than he should be. Eventually he put down his fork. 

“What?”

Charlie swallowed his mouthful of steak, looked at Harry for a few seconds, then sighed. 

“I want to talk to you.”

In that second, Harry suddenly realised what it was Charlie wanted to say, and he found that he really, really didn’t want to hear it.

“Look, Charlie, lunch probably wasn’t a good-”

“I want you back,” Charlie interrupted. “Harry, I’ve never stopped thinking about you. There’s been no one else. And now you’ve finally come out, there is nothing stopping us being together, is there? Please, Harry. Come back to me.”

Harry picked up the paper serviette from the table and wiped his mouth, buying himself a few much-needed moments to calm down. 

“Charlie, the reason I was late today because I was meeting with a solicitor, discussing my divorce from your sister,” he said, tone icy cool. “Two weeks ago I broke her heart, and two days ago was the anniversary of my son’s death. My divorce won’t be finalised for at least another couple of months, I’m trying to rebuild a life that was destroyed a year ago, and you want to talk about ‘us’? Tell me, Charlie, what’s it like up there, with your head in the fucking clouds?”

“I could be a part of that. I could help you,” Charlie said. “Please, Harry. I still love you.”

“Don’t,” Harry snarled. “Don’t say that to me. Not now, not ever. You’re my past- my past when I was eighteen. I’m twenty-six now, and I’m not the person I was then. Nor do I want to be him again. You’re not my future. I’m sorry.”

“Look me in the eyes and tell me you don’t still love me too.” Charlie’s voice was trembling now. Harry really didn’t want to do this. To do this to Charlie again. But this was more than he was willing to handle right now. 

“Charlie, I don’t love you. Not anymore,” he said, looking Charlie straight in the eyes. “It’s not going to happen. Accept that.”

“I need you, Harry.”

Harry was getting angry now.

“It’s always ‘me, me, me’ with you! What _you_ want, how _you_ feel. Well guess what? You’re not the centre of the universe! I mean, bloody hell! You swan back here after years away, barely a fortnight after my marriage breaks down, and you actually think I want a relationship right now, so soon? Come on, Charlie, spells have left wands slower than you tried to make your move!”

Harry heard two voices then as two people entered the pub. One was from a man which sounded vaguely familiar to Harry, but the other one, when it replied, was definitely identifiable. 

“I know you’d rather go elsewhere, but I only get forty minutes for lunch, and I don’t have time today for Axis today. Now they do a rather tasty ploughman’s, so do stop complaining and find us a half-decent table.” It was Draco, accompanied by, unless Harry was mistaken, the man he’d witnessed Draco passionately kissing on the night Harry ended his marriage. 

Harry swore under his breath, and willed the gods of fate to not let Draco and his companion notice them. Of course, as usual, the gods were simply taking the piss out of him, however, and Draco spotted him almost as soon as they reached the bar. Harry saw his eyes widen in surprise. 

“Potter!” he said, shocked. “What are you doing here?”

“Um, having lunch,” Harry replied lamely. “Draco, this is Charlie Weasley, Ginny’s elder brother. Charlie, Draco Malfoy. Um, yeah, you know who he is of course. And this here is, er, Martin.”

Harry realised his mistake as soon as he said the name. Draco had certainly never mentioned Martin to him during their sessions, and Harry only knew his name from overhearing it in the dark, in the middle of the night. Draco, who had been appraising Charlie with a look that let Harry know that he had just put two and two together, turned his sharp grey eyes, full of accusation, onto him, but he didn’t say anything as Martin and Charlie shook hands.

“Will you two join us? Please?” Harry said, hoping he didn’t sound too desperate. Despite not wanting Draco to spot him initially, Harry couldn’t deny that he’d relaxed somewhat in his presence, and that was incredibly welcome at this moment in time. Truth was, he really didn’t want to be alone with Charlie any longer. 

“No, Potter, we have something to discuss,” Draco said curtly. “However, shall I be seeing you this week?” His voice was cold and his glare still steely. He was clearly agitated about how Harry had known Martin’s name, and Harry knew that his next session with Draco wasn’t going to be pleasant. 

“Yeah. Usual time. I’ll see you then,” Harry said. Draco gave him a brief nod, gave the same to Charlie, and turned and stalked to a table at the opposite end of the pub. 

“Nice to meet you both,” Martin said awkwardly, and hurried off after him. Harry let out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding, and picked up his fork. His appetite has vanished completely, but the motion of eating gave him something to do. 

“So it’s like that then, is it?” 

It was Charlie’s turn to glare at Harry now, his face having acquired the same angry blotchy red that Ron’s did when he was furious. 

“I get it now,” he snarled. “So, all that ‘not wanting a relationship’ stuff was nonsense then.”

Harry was completely perplexed. 

“What are you talking about?” he retorted. 

“You! And Malfoy! All that ‘I’ll see you this week’ bollocks. There’s something going on between you, isn’t there? I saw the look you gave each other.”

“No!” Harry yelled, realising belatedly that the barman was watching them. He dropped his voice. “No, there bloody well isn’t. Malfoy is my _therapist_ , alright? I see him at St Mungo’s a couple of times a week. He’s the one who put me back together again after I arrived at his door utterly broken. He’s been there for me when I really needed someone, but that’s it. And that Martin is his boyfriend.”

“Doesn’t look like he is to me,” Charlie said, nodding in their direction. Draco and Martin were sitting on opposite sides of the table, with their heads close together. Draco was talking in a low voice, far too low for Harry to hear the words, but even without sound, the look on Martin’s face made the topic of their conversation clear: Draco was ending things with him. Harry felt his heart give a pleasant jolt at that. He didn’t understand why.

“There’s nothing between Draco and me,” he repeated, tearing his eyes away from the pair. “And he’s not a factor in my not wanting to be with you. I ended us years ago, and I’m not going back.” He picked up his glass of Coke and drank the last of its contents. “I really don’t want to hurt you, but I’m never going to be the person I was back then again. Goodbye, Charlie.”

“I’m not going to give up,” Charlie said, as Harry stood to leave. Harry ignored him, ignored Draco sitting at the table at the opposite end of the bar, and walked out of the pub. He’d not got the closure he’d wanted with Charlie, but it was OK. It was over. Eight years after it had finally begun, Harry knew with certainty that whatever he and Charlie had- and, let’s face it, he thought wryly, it was hardly what someone could call a healthy relationship- was over. Finished. No more ‘what ifs’. He turned to walk down the road, but stopped when he heard someone calling his name. 

“Charlie, take the hint!” he called, turning around, but stopped dead. Yes, it was Charlie who had called his name. But he wasn’t alone. 

George was standing next to him, and he was literally shaking with rage. He was also wearing the same horrible brown checked shirt Harry had noticed on the elderly man sitting at a nearby table in the pub earlier. _Oh, bugger_. 

“The three of us need a little chat,” he snarled, walking up to Harry and pushing him into the alleyway at the back of the pub. “My flat. _Now_.” He took Harry’s arm in one hand, Charlie’s in the other, and turned on the spot, pulling all three of them into the suffocating blackness of Apparition. 

                                                                                               

*

Harry gasped for breath when George finally released him from the unexpected Apparition. Panting, he noticed that he was, indeed, in the flat in Diagon Alley which was situated about Weasleys’ Wizarding Wheezes. 

“What are you doing, George?” he said angrily. 

In lieu of a verbal response, George pulled back a fist and slammed it firmly into Harry’s jaw with a sickening crunch. Harry let out an involuntary gasp. 

“That’s for my sister,” George growled, before turning around with the speed of a cheetah and delivering the same blow to a still slightly disorientated Charlie. “You pair of selfish, cheating, scumbags.”

Charlie was still looking incredibly confused, as he stood massaging his jaw, but Harry’s brain was working overtime. 

“How much did you overhear?” he asked, refusing to rub his own throbbing jaw and give George the satisfaction of knowing just how much he’d hurt him. 

“When? Today, or Monday?” George said. His fist was scarlet and looked like it was hurting. If Harry’s face looked like Charlie’s, however, they’d definitely come off worse, though. “Yeah, I heard you both out in the garden at Mum and Dad’s, arranging your little rendezvous for this afternoon. Thought to myself, ‘George, those are two blokes that don’t want to be overheard’. So, I looked up the address of the pub you mentioned, grabbed one of the Aging Apparel kits from the shop that put about forty years on a person, cast a charm over the table you were both sat at in order to let me hear your voices clearly, and settled down to eavesdrop. And quite the illuminating conversation the two of you had, I must say.”

Harry closed his eyes and put his hands over his face. There was no point denying it. The game was up. 

“The two of you have been… have been having an affair, for all this time?” George bellowed. Harry had never seen him this angry.

“No. Not since I married Ginny,” Harry said. “I ended it before the wedding.”

“Oh, how spiffingly noble of you,” George snapped back sarcastically. “Give the boy an Order of Merlin.”

“What are you going to do about it?” Charlie asked. He sounded frightened. Harry couldn’t blame him.

“ _I’m_ not going to do anything,” George said. “You are, though, dearest brother. You’re going to leave. Go back to Romania. We managed for years without you when you refused to come home when we needed you, and we can fucking well manage without you now.”

“And if I don’t?” 

George laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound. 

“Then I tell everyone about the two of you. You heard Harry. He doesn’t want you anymore. There will be no Harry, no me, no Ginny, and I’m quite sure no Mum and Dad, or Ron, or our other brothers once they find out what you and Golden Boy here have been up to. So fuck off while the rest of the family still at least likes you.”

He turned on Harry then. 

“As for you,” he said, “I cannot believe you would do this to Ginny. I will get you the thousand Galleons you gave Fred and me to start up Wheezes from my Gringotts vault in the morning, and then you will never have anything to do with the business again. The only reason I’m not telling Ginny about this is because all it will do is hurt her more, not to mention humiliate her, and I will not see her brought down any further. Do you know, Harry, I was the one who supported you, felt sorry for you when Ginny told us you were bent. I tried to imagine how hard it must have been to live like you had. I don’t feel so sorry now.” 

He looked white and livid. Harry stood rooted to the spot, unsure what to do. He didn’t dare approach George, lest he end up with a black eye to match the huge bruise he could feel coming up on his jaw. 

“Get out,” George snarled. He wasn’t looking at either of them. “Oh, and Charlie? I’ll know if you’re still around. You have until tomorrow to make your goodbyes.”

Charlie was trembling slightly, but nodded. His face was pallid. He prepared to Apparate, but just as he began to move, George said, “Fred would never have done this to Ginny. Yet he’s the one of the two of you who had to die. How is that for fairness? Just something to think about.” Charlie didn’t physically react to those bitter words, but simply disappeared.

“That was a despicable thing to say,” Harry snapped. “I don’t give a fuck what we’ve done in the past- which has been over for years anyway- he didn’t deserve that. And I think Fred would have been ashamed of you, hearing that. The George Weasley I knew would never have said such a thing. He died when Fred did.” Then he, too, turned on the spot, arriving almost instantly in the living room of Grimmauld Place. 

                                                                                               

*

It was late evening, and Charlie Weasley was in the same pub he had met Harry in for lunch that afternoon. The trip had been an utter disaster. Harry didn’t want him. George hated him. He’d been all but banished from his family. It was no small wonder that Charlie was currently finding comfort in a very large glass of wine. It was numbing the pain from George’s right hook anyway. 

His mother had cried and begged him to stay when he had told her he was returning to Romania in the morning. That really hurt. Charlie gave a laugh completely devoid of any humour at the memory and beckoned to the barmaid for a refill, by waving his now-empty glass at her. 

He felt the presence of another person behind him seconds before the stall next to him was filled by someone. Even in Charlie’s inebriated state, he vaguely recognised the man sitting next to him. It was the man that bastard boyfriend-stealing arsehole Draco Malfoy had taken out for lunch that day. Michael, or Marvin, or something. 

“Hi,” said the man. He pointed to the glass of wine that the barmaid had just handed Charlie. “Allow me to buy you that one?” 

“Thanks,” Charlie replied. “I’m Charlie.”

“Yes, I remember.” The man gave him a weak smile and held out his hand, which Charlie took. “Martin Davis.” Martin: that was it. 

Martin ordered himself a drink, then indicated one of the quieter tables away from the main bar. “Shall we?”

Charlie picked up his drink and half-walked, half-staggered across the pub to the table, before plonking himself into the chair. 

“I take it you’re getting drunk for the same reason I am,” Martin said, taking a large sip from his own glass of wine. “I was rather unceremoniously dumped today.”

“Similar story,” Charlie said. “He doesn’t love me anymore.” To his horror a huge lump rose in his throat. 

“No. Draco doesn’t love me, either,” Martin replied. “That’s fair enough- I mean, we were hardly serious. But to be told he has strong feelings for someone else instead… that really hurts.”

“Who is it?” Charlie realised as soon as he said it that it was probably a very personal question, but the alcohol had loosened his tongue. Besides, he was already sure he knew.

“I can’t speak his name,” Martin replied. “Apparently Draco didn’t trust me not to go running to the Press, and cast a Tongue-Tying Curse on me. Which just proves how little he knows me, as I would never do that. But let’s just say that you and he have the same taste in men.”

The news wasn’t a huge surprise to Charlie. He’d seen how that bastard Malfoy had looked at Harry earlier. 

He’d also seen how Harry had looked at him in return. Not that Harry even realised it.

“Draco didn’t mention him by name, of course. He’s not so indiscreet,” Martin continued. “He just told me he had developed very strong feelings for someone else therefore it was unfair on me to continue in our relationship. But I have eyes. I could see the way Draco was looking at- at _him_. Draco obviously thought the spell necessary when he noticed that I’d caught him looking. And I am now no longer able to mention _his_ name, so I know who it is. I’m not an idiot.”

“I am,” Charlie replied. “A big fucking idiot. Another drink?”

Two hours- and several bottles of wine- later, both men were extremely drunk, their words beginning to slur. However, Charlie was surprised to discover that he’d enjoyed Martin’s company very much.

“…so I’m going back to Romania in abou’-” Charlie checked his wristwatch, “-eight hours. Fuck. I’m gonna feel so sick on the Portkey.” 

“Wish I could escape,” Martin replied. “Not from Draco. I feel dis’ppointed about that, mind, but he’s not why I wanna ge’away. It’s my ex. He’s an utter maniac. Sends me all sorts of shit- and I mean that literally, unfortunately- in the post, because I refuse to get back with him. Poor owl last week delivered a parcel of monkey faeces. He don’ wanna take no for an answer. Plus my mother died last summer, and she was all I had, family-wise. There’s nothin’ here for me anymore. I need to get away- new beginning, you know.”

In Charlie’s drunken mind, he was transported back eight years, on the eve of his return to Romania, with a much younger and more naïve Harry Potter. He, too, had needed to get away. And Charlie had given him that escape. And now here he was, preparing to return to Romania once again, with another person who needed to get away. It was a huge risk even considering taking this man, whom was still a virtual stranger, back with him. Madness even. But he was drunk, feeling reckless, and a Gryffindor to the core. Plus, Charlie had to admit, Martin was extremely attractive. Carpe diem. 

“Have you ever worked with dragons before?” he asked, with a crooked grin. Martin beamed and covered Charlie’s hand with his own. 

                                                                                               

*

Harry arrived early at his appointment with Draco. He’d found himself desperate to talk to him about the events of a couple of days ago. He sat in the waiting room, reading a two-year-old copy of _Witch Weekly_ (in which he was, Harry realised with an unpleasant jolt, third in their ‘best rear end’ countdown of 2004, losing to Daniel Jennings, Chaser for the Wimborne Wasps), reminding himself as he did so to bring his own book next time.

“Mr Potter? You can go in now,” the receptionist told him. Harry gave her a small smile and opened the now-familiar heavy oak door. 

“Potter.” Draco barely even looked up from the desk. Harry was taken aback; he’d become used to the cooler Draco that had presented himself at their sessions ever since Harry and Teddy’s visit to the Manor back in the summer, but Harry could almost feel the tension radiating from the blond behind the desk. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

“Close the door.” Harry did as he was told, gave a small, nervous cough to clear his suddenly-dry throat, then took his usual seat opposite Draco’s desk. 

“Um, hi,” he said. Draco gave him a nod of the head in return. 

“So, I wanted to talk about Charlie,” Harry said. “I know you’ve worked out he was my lover. He’s gone back to Romania, and George-”

“Potter, we will get to your mess of a love life in a minute,” Draco said. His voice was still sharp and uninviting. “But firstly, I wanted to discuss a small matter that’s irritated me since Wednesday. I was unaware you were a Seer.”

Harry stared at him blankly.

“Seer?”

“Yes,” Draco said, and there was no doubt about it. Draco was clearly angry about something.

“I’m not a Seer.”

“Yes, Potter, you must be a Seer. Because I’m sure there’s not another explanation as to how you knew Martin’s name before I introduced the pair of you.”

 _Oh, shit_. Harry had completely forgotten about that, what with the aftermath of the lunch; George carting him and Charlie off to his flat for the bollocking of his life had all but erased the half an hour that preceded it from his mind. He still had the bruise on his jaw to show for it. 

“Draco, I-” he began, but Draco cut him off. 

“Get comfortable, Potter. You’re going to talk, and I’m going to listen. And if you want our sessions to continue beyond today, you’d better pray to Merlin that your excuse is good.”


	8. The Beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Massive apologies for the huge delay in getting this chapter out. The next update will not take as long.

Harry was good at a lot of things. He was a good Auror. He was a good flier. He was very good at Quidditch. He was not, however, good at inventing stories, particularly when said stories needed to plausibly, yet untruthfully, explain how he had apparently clairvoyantly known the name of Draco’s now ex-boyfriend. His mind began to whir at about fifty miles an hour as he squirmed in his seat, desperately trying to come up with something.

_Well, Draco, you see…_

_…funny story! Do you remember when-_

_Did I ever tell you about Estella Potter, my great-great-great Grandmother? Trained by Cassandra Trelawney herself..._

No. They were all utterly pathetic, and had about as much chance of convincing Draco of his non-existent innocence as he did of flying his broomstick to the moon. Harry opened his mouth to speak, looked into the furious face of Draco, and let out a pathetic, “Um.”

“The truth, if you’d be so kind,” Draco snapped, sarcasm lacing his words. “I think you at least owe me that courtesy.” 

“I went to try and see you,” Harry said finally. “A while back now, the night I told Ginny I wanted a divorce. It was late, and I turned up at the Manor before I realised what I was doing, then I came to my senses a bit and I turned to leave, but I could see you with him, walking up the path to the entrance. You said his name, then you… you kissed.” He left out the past where he thought it had looked beautiful. There was already enough weirdness, and Harry didn’t think Draco would take that as a compliment; on the contrary, it could confirm Harry’s insanity in his therapist’s mind. 

Draco had turned white by now, but with fury or other emotion Harry couldn’t tell. The stoic mask was firmly in place. 

“I see,” he said, in a completely calm voice which was in stark contrast to how Harry was currently feeling. Harry knew this voice well. This voice meant danger. “Let’s see if I have this right. You come to my house- my private residence- uninvited in the dead of night, then you spy on me in an intimate moment, like some voyeur. You’ve crossed a line here, Potter. In fact, you’re so far over the line that the line is no longer even in your vision.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry said. Draco just sneered at him. 

“That half-hearted apology doesn’t even come close to placating me,” he said. “Potter, I am your therapist. You are my client. You pay me money and I tend to your needs. We have a business arrangement. We are not friends.”

“That makes you sound like a whore,” Harry snapped, instantly regretting it, as Draco’s face whitened further, and Harry didn’t miss the involuntary twitch of Draco’s fingers close to the pocket in which Harry knew Draco’s wand was located. 

“You will not cheapen my profession with your vile vitriol again,” Draco said, still in that cool, almost indifferent voice that Harry knew was actually spitting with anger. “And why me? Was I your first choice of confidant? Why didn’t you visit one of your other friends?”

“Ron and Hermione have a young baby and a toddler,” Harry said. “I can’t wake them up in the middle of the night. Plus Ron is Ginny’s brother, so he’s hardly the best person to go to. I can’t talk to my other friends about something like this. And I just needed to talk to someone who would understand. Someone I know I could trust.” This was the truth, mainly. But Harry didn’t think that mentioning that Draco had been the one Harry most wanted to talk to would help this situation right now.

“You’re becoming too dependent on me,” Draco said. 

“No!” Harry almost yelled his protest. “I’m not, Draco, honestly!” He couldn’t understand the fluttering of panic that was threatening to escape from his chest now. All he knew was that it was absolutely vital that Draco forgave him. 

“Yes, Potter, you are,” Draco continued. “You continue to address me by my given name, despite my requests you do not do so. I repeat, again, as it doesn’t seem to be sinking in: we are not friends.” His anger was softening somewhat now, to be replaced by something Harry couldn’t read. “We cannot be friends. We- _I_ -have to keep our distance from each other. We can’t take it further than that.” He took a deep sigh, and Harry thought that Draco suddenly looked pained. “I’ve been thinking for a while now that our sessions probably didn’t need to continue as you’re doing so well, but if you insist on still receiving therapy, I have a colleague who can take over from me. Gemma Farley. Gemma is a fantastic grief councillor and, with your permission of course, I could hand your case over to her. She’s in a perfect position to take over from me as your therapist.”

The flutter of panic that had begun in Harry’s stomach had turned into a violent thrashing now.

“Please don’t blackball me,” he said, and couldn’t even care at how pathetic his voice sounded. “You’re right; I don’t need a councillor. I need a friend. I need _you_ , Draco.”

Draco’s jaw was set tight. His skin was still white, and he looked coldly furious now. Yet his eyes… even in his current state, Harry could see that Draco’s eyes held pain, and something almost like regret. 

“I have to,” Draco said, his voice soft now. “I’m sorry, Potter, but it would be unprofessional of me to allow this to continue. You’ve become emotionally dependent on me. It’s called transference, and is not uncommon, but when it occurs, the professional thing to do is pass a client onto another therapist.”

“I won’t see her,” Harry said, his voice quivering now. He stood to leave. “I’ll see you, or no one at all. I’m sorry I came to your house, for what it’s worth, but I won’t apologise for wanting to be your friend.” He grabbed his coat and crossed the room to the exit, pulled at the door handle, but in his state he couldn’t open the door. He was just about to draw his wand to cast _Alohomora_ when he noticed Draco standing behind him. Draco’s fingers brushed slightly against Harry’s as he reached for the handle, and Harry jumped as an unexpected tingle shot up his arm and down his spine. He froze in place, as did Draco. He could hear Draco’s breathing next to him now, soft but slightly ragged, and for some inexplicable reason, Harry wanted to shut his eyes and lose himself in the sound of it, to let the hot breath engulf him. He felt the tiny hairs on his neck stand erect as one of Draco’s breaths washed over him, and he managed to supress a shiver. He’d not felt like this in a long time, in fact not since he was eighteen…

_Oh, shit._

The click of the door as Draco finally got it open drew Harry back to himself, forcing down the horrible realisation that had just slammed into him like a Bludger. He didn’t want to leave the office, yet he also couldn’t get out of there quickly enough, now that this sickening comprehension dawned on him. He forced himself to meet Draco’s eyes, still full of the confliction and pain they had a few minutes ago, as he stepped over the threshold, and uttered a goodbye. Then he turned and walked as quickly as his remaining shred of dignity would allow towards the lift, not hearing Draco’s, “Goodbye, Harry,” in return. 

Of all the people in the world, he had to go and fall for Draco fucking Malfoy. Harry was so screwed.

                                                                                               

*

Life- such as it was- continued for Harry over the next few weeks. He and Ginny received their Degree nisi, which was followed by their Decree absolute at the beginning of December. The official and legal termination of their marriage didn’t bring the closure Harry had hoped it would, however. Things were still incredibly strained with the Weasleys: Ginny and he barely had a word to say to one another, George was ignoring Harry’s existence, and Molly and Arthur were trying to treat Harry the same but for obvious reasons they were finding it difficult. Ron was trying his hardest but Harry noticed that a lot of his jovial “Come on, mate”-s were forced. Only Hermione treated him the same as before. His relationship with them had not been helped a single iota by the Press, who, once they caught wind of the divorce, featured Harry and Ginny on the front page of the _Prophet_ every day for a week, speculating on every reason for the split, including a bunch of fabricated ‘exclusive interviews with the Potters’ closest friends’. Only when they started bringing up Matthew as the cause of the split did Harry lose his temper, instructing his solicitor to write a strongly-worded cease and desist letter, which did, thankfully, bring an end to the conjecture. Still, he was stared at in public again in a way that he hadn’t been since the first few months following Voldemort’s defeat, which was doing nothing to improve Harry’s mood.

Then, of course, was the (not so) small issue of Draco. Or, ‘the prat Harry Potter had to fall for, because Heaven’s above he should have a normal life for once’, as Harry was calling him in his head. Harry had neither seen nor heard from Draco since Draco had terminated their therapy, with the exception that a supply of sleeping draughts arrived weekly with Draco’s owl, although never with a note. Harry, in all his stubbornness and anger at the git, had thought about simply pouring them down the sink, but he was too frightened of the dreams that would follow if he did so. 

Not seeing Draco had done nothing to diminish the feeling of want inside Harry, however. Now that he had realised his feelings (and, once he started looking back, the signs had been there for months, really), he found himself thinking about Draco all the time. Only his own stubbornness stopped him visiting the Manor or writing a letter; it would be a cold day in Hell before he lowered his pride enough to contact someone who had outright rejected him and all but thrown him out of their office.

Luckily his relationship with Teddy was still strong, Teddy being the one person in the world to truly forgive him for his behaviour over the past year. A week before Christmas, Harry took him to Diagon Alley to buy Christmas presents. They were in Fortescue’s when the inevitable happened. Harry had just ordered them both huge peanut butter sundaes topped with chocolate sprinkles and cream and they had sat at a table to eat them when Draco walked into the parlour with Scorpius. Harry felt a pleasurable glow at the sight. How could Harry not notice him? At almost six-foot, with white-blond hair and robes in dark charcoal grey, Draco stood out from the crowd of mousy-looking shoppers. Harry watched him remove a pair of black dragon-hide gloves and speak his order to the waitress. It was then that he realised Teddy had been talking to him and Harry hadn’t heard a word.

“…and Gran said I can have a Crup but only if I promise to play with it every day. Harry? Are you listening?”

“Sorry, Teddy,” Harry said, shoving a spoonful of ice cream into his mouth for something to do. “Crup. Yeah. Great.” He watched Draco hand over a few Galleons and accept a tray with his order on it from the waitress at the counter, and caught the exact moment he realised Harry was sitting at the table. Scorpius, who had been watching his father, followed Draco’s gaze and let out a yell of delight when he spotted them. 

“Teddy! Mr Harry!” he shouted, and before Draco could put the tray on the counter in order to grab hold of him, he darted through the crowd, dodging the tables that separated Harry from the counter, and sat down in an empty chair at their table. Harry, who was still watching Draco, saw his former therapist sigh in defeat and reluctantly make his way over to their table.

“Hello, Potter,” he said curtly, placing the tray containing his and Scorpius’ sundaes and a pot of tea next to Harry’s. “Would it be OK if Scorpius and I joined you?” Harry could see that part of Draco really wanted him to refuse. Like that was going to happen.

“Of course,” said Harry, his tummy squirming pleasantly. He moved his coffee mug to allow Draco more room. “The more the merrier.”

He and Draco sat in an uncomfortable silence, each stealing glances at the other when they thought the other wasn’t looking, and listened to Scorpius and Teddy’s conversation, which was once again on the subject of Crups.

“I’ve got a Crup,” Scorpius told Teddy. “He’s called Orthrus. Father says an Orthrus has two heads, not two tails, but it’s close enough.”

“How have you been?” Draco asked Harry quietly, causing him to start slightly. 

“I’m doing OK. Well, I’m not drinking again, or curled up in a ball of depression, or convinced myself again that it’s my fault Matthew died because I’m a despicable human being, if that’s what you mean. I’m coping, I think. Taking each day at a time, like you taught me to. I’ve missed you though,” Harry said. He kicked himself; he’d not meant to let that slip out.

“Crups don’t have two tails. They have one, but it’s forked,” Teddy corrected Scorpius. 

“I’m glad you’re doing well. And I’ve missed you too,” Draco said, his cheeks flushing ever so slightly pink at the admission. Harry’s stomach gave its pleasant flip once again at the words. “I read about your divorce in the _Prophet_.”

“Everyone read about my divorce in the fucking _Prophet_ ,” Harry said, and even as he did so his eyes roamed the tables of Fortescue’s, where at least four people were gawping at him and two quickly averted their eyes. Draco shot him a sympathetic look.

“Forked? Like this?” Scorpius asked, picking up a fork from the cutlery pot on the table and examining it in confusion. Teddy shook his head and began to explain, pausing now and again to shovel more ice cream into his mouth. Neither Harry nor Draco were listening properly to the boys’ conversation, too focussed on their clandestine staring of the other, so didn’t hear Scorpius’ question when it was asked.

“What? Oh, yes, whatever,” Draco said distractedly to the unheard question, then jumped violently (as did Harry and the elderly witch on the next table) when both boys shrieked with excitement and yelled, “Yes!”

“Teddy!” Harry scolded, as he helped the elderly witch Vanish the spilt tea from the table which she had knocked over when she jumped, whilst Draco poured her a fresh cup from his own teapot.

“Can I ask what caused this outburst?” Draco asked, once the witch had stopped yelling, and Harry cast a _Muffliato_ over their table. 

“You said yes!” Scorpius said.

“Yes?”

“They can come!” Scorpius continued. “I asked if Teddy and Mr Harry could come to the Manor for our Christmas Eve party, and you said yes! This is going to be the best Christmas ever!”

Harry and Draco gaped at each other whilst the boys continued to exchange excited chatter and eat their ice creams. 

“This is why I really should have listened to my son,” Draco said through gritted teeth. He seemed to be having an internal argument with himself, before finally coming to a decision. “I feel rescinding your invite now would only cause both boys huge disappointment. Therefore I suppose it wouldn’t be the end of the world if you were to attend.”

Harry grinned into his mug of coffee. Suddenly he was looking forward to Christmas much more than he had been half an hour ago. 

                                                                                               

*

Harry was, frankly, bored. Teddy and Scorpius had disappeared from what they called the “dull grown-ups” to Scorpius’ room where, the last time Narcissa checked on them both, they were playing Gobstones. He’d barely seen Draco; forced into his role as host, Draco had spent the majority of the party mingling with his guests, ordering the house-elves to refresh drinks and plates of food, and basically doing everything he possibly could to keep well out of Harry’s way, much to Harry’s annoyance. Aside from the handful of Slytherin ex-students Harry recognised from Hogwarts, none of whom had uttered a single word to him, and Draco’s mother, Harry knew none of the guests and was standing alone in the corner of the huge room. He sipped at his glass of cherry syrup, hoping it would hide the scowl from his face as Blaise Zabini stared at him suspiciously from his chair whilst a blonde woman Harry vaguely recognised from his year at Hogwarts hang off his arm. It wasn’t the first such look he’d received all evening from guests of the Malfoys, all of whom wondering why on earth Draco had invited Harry Potter, and Harry was quite certain it wouldn’t be the last. Just to give him five minutes’ breathing space, rather than because he needed to actually go, he put down his drink and went in search of a bathroom. No one had shown him where one was and he was buggered if he could remember from Scorpius’ birthday party over four months previously. Draco was nowhere in sight; Harry had been keeping tabs on him as much as he could and had concluded that the git hadn’t even been in the room for the last twenty minutes. 

After wondering around aimlessly without success for ten minutes, however, Harry had to admit he was lost. He had not yet found a bathroom, and he didn’t know his way back to the party either. He was on the verge of casting a _Point Me_ spell when he spotted something in one of the doorways. A Draco-shaped something. Yet it was as motionless as a statue, like it was a waxwork. But why would a statue be in the doorway?

“Draco?” Harry asked tentatively, approaching it. The rigid mass didn’t so much as twitch, yet Harry noticed the eyes blinking. “Oh, crap, that’s actually you. Have you been cursed?” 

Draco blinked again, his eyes looking panicked. 

“Right,” Harry said. “One blink for yes, two for no, OK? Are you stuck?”

One blink. Harry wondered how Draco managed to shoot him an exasperated look which plainly said ‘are you shitting me?’ whilst Petrified. 

“OK, stupid question. Obviously you are. Shall I try and find someone? Your mum?”

Two blinks. 

“There is something I can do?” One blink. Harry pulled out his wand. Draco began to blink frantically. “Fine, I understand you, no spells.” He looked around for clues as he pocketed his and once more, drawing on his Auror training, before finally spotting what he believed to be the culprit. “Draco, is this mistletoe above the door enchanted? That’s what’s Petrified you?” One blink. “And to free you, I guess I have to…”

Shit. Of all the times in the last few weeks where Harry had imagined kissing Draco, none of them had involved Draco frozen and motionless, unable to remotely kiss back. “Are you sure someone else shouldn’t be doing this instead of me?” Two blinks again, and Draco’s eyes flashed with anger. “Oh, OK. Fine.”

He took a deep breath, tilted his head slightly up, and kissed Draco lightly on the cheek. “Did that work?” Two blinks, followed by a roll of the eyes. “Why didn’t it work?”

There was no response from Draco, and Harry realised it was because he hadn’t asked it as a yes or no question. He thought about it. Draco had ‘said’ that he could free him, yet the kiss on the cheek hadn’t worked. Unless…

“Do I have to kiss you on the mouth?” Harry asked, hoping that he’d managed to keep the quicker of nervousness from his voice. One blink. “Right. Close your eyes then.”

It was only a peck, Harry told himself. One small peck that didn’t mean anything. He was just freeing Draco from his stupid enchanted mistletoe, that was all. His body clearly didn’t know that, however, and Harry felt his heart speed up, the smooth rhythm in his chest quickening in anticipation of feeling Draco’s lips against his own. He stepped closer to Draco, and could feel his breath washing over his face, just as he had done in Draco’s office all those weeks ago. Harry leant forwards, closed his own eyes before he could stop himself, and pressed his mouth against Draco’s.

The kiss was over in an instant, but that didn’t prevent the tingle, ten times as strong as it was in Draco’s office, from shooting down his spine. He forced his eyes open and saw that Draco had, finally, been released from whatever curse had been holding him there. 

“Some fine Auror you are,” Draco said, stretching and flexing his stiff fingers. “’Did that work’. Honestly, Potter, with observation skills like yours I’m surprised you haven’t been made Head of the whole department yet.” He was clearly trying to sound angry, but Harry couldn’t help but notice Draco was failing miserably. His cheeks were flushed a deep pink- from embarrassment, no doubt- but he was looking at Harry softly, in the way he had done the last time Harry had been here, when Draco had told Harry that he, too, was gay. It had been, Harry realised now looking back, the moment something shifted between them and, whatever Draco said, it was the moment they had become more than therapist and patient. 

“At least I didn’t get trapped in my own doorway by a plant. You’re welcome, by the way,” Harry said, trying to break the tension. It didn’t seem to work. “Um, Draco?” 

Draco was still staring at him, and Harry had noticed that he’d made no effort to back away.

“Merry Christmas,” Draco said, and Harry did let out a gasp of surprise when a finger lightly brushed his cheek. Neither had made any move to put more distance between them. Draco was still so close; the finger that had traced his cheek was now at the nape of his neck, and all Harry would have to do is lean forward a couple of inches and their lips would connect once more…

“Father! Teddy won’t share!” came a voice from the end of the corridor, and both Harry and Draco pulled away, like a couple of schoolboys caught putting frogspawn inside the teacher’s desk. Scorpius was standing about ten feet away from them, a couple of vivid blue Gobstones in his hands.

“I am!” Teddy yelled, appearing next to Scorpius, his hair a fiery red colour and covered in putrid Gobstone fluid. “It’s not my fault you’re too much of a baby to learn to take turns!”

“Boys!” Harry and Draco bellowed together, and even in his irritation that whatever he and Draco had just shared had been broken by a stupid childish squabble, Harry was amused by their conjoined outburst.

“Teddy, play nicely or we’ll leave. Scorpius is younger than you so you have to accept that sometimes he’ll play differently to you,” Harry said, then held up a hand when Teddy began to protest. “Scorpius, it’s important to take turns fairly, otherwise the game isn’t fun for the other person. Do you think you can take turns?” Scorpius looked like he was about to cry, but nodded. “Good. Now shake hands and make up.” Both boys turned to each other and shook hands. Teddy’s hair dulled from fiery crimson to a more subtle maroon, before settling on the same shade of blue as the Gobstones, much to Scorpius’ delight. Then, giggling as if the last few minutes hadn’t happened, they ran back down the hallway happily.

“You’re great with them,” Draco said. “You have natural parenting skills.”

It was like a lead balloon had landed on him. Harry’s good humour drained instantly. 

“Well, I’ll never put it to the test, will I?” He snapped, thinking of Matthew, and ex-wives, and the fact he was fucking _gay_ , for crying out loud. “I’m never going to be a father. I’m not going to have a family.”

“I cannot believe that you of all people think that family has to be flesh and blood to count, given your own experiences,” Draco said. “Your blood relatives- your mother’s sister and her son, yes? They treated you appallingly. Yet you have had a family since you were eleven years old. You have had the Weasleys, who love you like one of their own. You have Teddy and my aunt now, and Teddy has you and the Weasleys too. You are the closest thing to a father that boy has ever, or will ever, have, and you still say you’re not a parent? Open your eyes, Potter. You’ve been a parent to him since you were eighteen.”

“The Weasleys won’t want me. Not if they find out what Charlie and I got up to, which they probably will because George knows now,” Harry said. Every trace of desire that Harry had experienced in the last ten minutes had completely evaporated now. He was just feeling miserable and wanted nothing more to grab Teddy and Apparate them home. But he couldn’t. Running away was what the Harry of a few months ago would have done. He was stronger than that now. 

“You treated your wife badly. I won’t deny that,” Draco said. “But families love unconditionally. That is why my mother lied to the Dark Lord to save you. That is why I tried so desperately hard to kill Dumbledore. To keep our family safe. Because that old codger was right about one thing. Love is extremely strong. You’re not going to be alone, Harry.”

Harry didn’t understand why it was hearing his given name on Draco’s lips that triggered it, but he sniffed loudly and bit his lip as his eyes filled with tears. He looked away, mortified that this was happening, here and now of all places, in the hallway of Malfoy bloody Manor. 

“Can I have a minute or two?” he asked, and Draco nodded, directed him to the bathroom three doors along, and headed back to the party. Harry entered the bathroom and splashed cold water on his face, willing himself to get a grip. A few minutes and a strong Cheering Charm later, he double-checked his face in the mirror to make sure it didn’t look like he’d been crying, and set back off through the labyrinth of hallways in search of the Christmas party once more.

                                                                                               

*

The party ended at about eleven, and when Harry checked on Teddy he found him and Scorpius curled up on Scorpius’ bed, both sound asleep. 

“Don’t wake him,” Draco said. “Let him spend the night.” 

Harry nodded. He had Teddy overnight anyway, as it was his turn to have him for Christmas day. He pulled his wand and Levitated the duvet over the sleeping boys, then with another flick extinguished the oil lamps from the room. 

“The house-elves will make up a bed for you, too,” Draco said. He called a name and a tiny house-elf dressed in a spotty pink tea towel arrived. “Make up the spare quarters, then show Mr Potter to them please. Have a phial of my sleeping draught left on the nightstand for him.”

Without further ado, Draco bade Harry a completely polite, but detached, goodnight and headed up the grand staircase to his own quarters. Harry sighed. It seemed that every time Draco let his guard down around him, he put his shield up ten times harder next time. That had to stop, Harry thought. As the house-elf informed Harry that his room was ready and “You is to be following Chalmers, sir,” Harry was already coming to a decision. What he and Draco shared earlier, with the ridiculous mistletoe and the immediate aftermath, was far more than Draco claimed them to be. And Harry suspected that Draco needed him just as much as he needed Draco, if only he’d bloody well admit it. It was time to take back some control of his life. 

After all, that was exactly what Draco had been encouraging him to do now for nine months. 

Draco may be stubborn, but so was he. And Harry did so enjoy a challenge. Slipping between the sheets five minutes later, Harry smiled, feeling more his old self than he had done in months. This was just the beginning.


	9. Amor Verus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N I am so, so sorry for the amount of time it has taken to get this chapter out! Apparently holding down a full-time teaching job and raising two small kids doesn't leave me a lot of time to write. Who'd have thought it?! It's the school summer holidays here in England now (yay!) so with the wonderful prospect of six weeks off work, I'm hoping to get a few updates before I'm back at work in September. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding. ~Phoenixstrike

Harry didn’t exactly have what one could call a huge amount of relationship experience, despite being married for the majority of his adult years. The number of people he’d dated could easily be counted on one hand, with fingers to spare. Cho- an unmitigated disaster of a barely-there relationship, started by a kiss when she’d been crying her eyes out over Cedric. Ginny- a brief, yet very pleasurable (at the time) relationship for him, sparked by a mutual kiss in the heat of the moment and had led to the most enjoyable few weeks of his sixteen years, and which felt safe and familiar but which never held the same spark of desire for him once Voldemort had been defeated and he and Ginny got back together (he’d not understood initially why he felt that way). 

Then there was Charlie. Harry could not deny the deep, almost feral attraction and longing he’d felt for Ginny’s elder brother. It had been an attraction that he’d never felt for any girl, not even Ginny during his sixth year at Hogwarts. It consumed him, burnt him from the insides, and could leave him hard and aching, desperate for physical contact, all from a look. An attraction that could, and frequently did, rapidly bring him to orgasm with the gentlest, merest hint of touches. Before Charlie, Harry had never found much interest in sex. He’d never bothered much with self-release in school, wondering why he didn’t react in the same way as his dorm mates to the pictures of scantily-clad women Seamus shared around the dormitory after dark, which often ended with his four friends disappearing behind spelled-closed bed hangings and Imperturbable Charms. He was perfectly content with just kissing Ginny, never really feeling that deep desire to take it to the next step. But Charlie… that was an entirely new Quidditch game altogether.

Charlie had been his first in every way, and it had been in those moments, when Charlie was underneath him, writhing with desire whilst Harry pushed into him, or when Charlie thrust deep into Harry, that he had known he would never have with Ginny what he knew he could have with another man. But Harry wasn’t convinced, now he was looking back, that what he’d felt was love, despite what he’d been sure of at the time. It certainly wasn’t a healthy love, anyway. Not the love that should exist between partners; the love he’d been told his mother and father had for each other, or the love that Ginny’s parents so evidently shared. It wasn’t the love he could see that existed so purely, effortlessly, between Ron and Hermione, or (Harry thought with a deep pang of guilt) the love Ginny had held for him. Not the love that spoke of implicit trust, a deep bond that went beyond physical passion and desire. Lust, oh yes. He and Charlie had had lust for one another by the bucket load. And Harry had definitely felt intense feelings for Charlie that went beyond sex. But the type of love that existed around him, that life-long bond, evidenced through his family and friends? Harry didn’t think he’d ever felt that sort of love in his life. 

Then there was Draco. Draco Malfoy of all people, former Death Eater, stuck-up prick, bane of his childhood, playground bully who’d tormented Hermione and called her a Mudblood. The little snotty bastard who’d irritated Harry and his friends greatly, who’d never missed an opportunity to try to get Harry into trouble. The teenager who’d been forced to commit despicable acts by his father’s Lord, yet had saved his and his friends’ lives in the final weeks of the war. The man who had helped him overcome the worst thing that had ever happened to him, helping him rise like a phoenix from the ashes, drawing him from an existence that would have surely killed him in the end. The man who had compassion, whose profession was to help people, and who was a loving, devoted father. Draco who, unbeknown to either of them, had lived such a parallel life to his own: both gay, both married, both carrying around guilt that would never truly be abated, and learning not to let it crush them. The man he knew now was so far removed from the boy he’d hated that it was as if they were two separate people in Harry’s mind. And he was okay with that. Harry was hardly the same boy he’d been at school either. 

And of course there were Harry’s feelings towards his prickly ex-enemy. Whilst they weren’t at a level he’d experienced with Charlie yet, Harry couldn’t deny the signs were all there that he was falling, and falling hard. The Snitches in the stomach, the silly grin when he thought about Draco, the leap he felt every time someone walked past him who held a passing resemblance to him. Harry was showing all the signs. He even wondered if Draco Malfoy might even be the one that he found his true love with… Harry wasn’t quite there yet, but he suspected it wasn’t going to take long. And, unlike Charlie, Draco wasn’t taboo, off-limits. He wasn’t the escapism Harry was seeking from his reality. Draco would be his reality. Harry could really see a future, and that made all the difference in the world. Except for one tiny problem. Since the Mistletoe Incident, when Harry had to kiss Draco to release him from the plant’s clutches followed by the almost-kiss, Draco was completely ignoring him. Harry wasn’t a complete idiot. He’d noticed Draco had nearly kissed him too, had felt exactly as he, Harry, had, standing in that doorway with the ridiculous mistletoe dangling precariously above their heads. Even if it was just a passing second of attraction, it had been there. There was something between them, and Harry wasn’t prepared to give that up. Not without a bloody hard fight first.

He smiled. Draco had helped him work through his guilt, certainly, but he’d healed him in more ways than either of them could have anticipated nine months ago. Draco was Harry’s phoenix tears. He’d impossibly brought him back from the brink of destruction and healed him in a way Harry felt certain no one else, not even Ron or Hermione, would have been able to. And Harry was damned if he was going to let it get away. 

*

_ 31/12/06 _

_ Draco, _

_ Thanks again for Christmas. Teddy had a wonderful time. Would you allow me to return the favour sometime? I could cook? Scorpius would love to spend another evening with Teddy, I’m sure.  _

_ Happy New Year, Draco, _

_ Harry _

__

_ _

_*_

_ Wednesday 3rd January, 2007 _

_ Potter, _

_ You’re welcome, again, for Christmas. However, you do not need to reciprocate. Your thanks is repayment enough. Scorpius is rather busy at the moment so unfortunately we are unable to accept your invitation.  _

_ I have sent this note with your potions.  _

_ D. Malfoy _

_ _

_*_

_ 4/1/07 _

_ Draco, _

_ Thanks for the potions. I think they may have been too heavy for your owl to carry, however. Poor thing needed a long rest and owl tonic before she could make the return journey. Perhaps I could collect them from you next time? Or you could deliver? You know my address.  _

_ The invitation to dinner still stands, by the way. _

_ Harry. _

_ _

_*_

_ Sunday 7th January, 2007 _

_ Potter, _

_ Do you ever date a letter correctly? It is considered impolite to write the date in short form when corresponding.  _

_ I thank you for the care you gave to Mnemosyne; in hindsight perhaps the parcel was too heavy for her to deliver. I shall send future deliveries with a house-elf. There is no need to inconvenience yourself and collect them from me in person. _

_ Again, I thank you for the invitation to dinner, but once again I am unable to accept. _

_ D. Malfoy _

_ _

_*_

_ 8/1/07 _

_ Draco, _

_ I will date a letter however the fuck I want to. I didn’t realise we were so fucking formal with one another. You want to talk about fucking manners? Well, you don’t even give me the fucking curtesy of writing your fucking name! Or using mine. I’m also getting really fucking tired of your fucking ‘brushing me off’ fucking bullshit. One fucking dinner? _

_ Harry _

_ P.S I’m aware I may have overdone my fucks in this letter. P.P.S Your owl has a really stupid, pretentious name. _

_ _

_*_

_ 12/1/07 _

_ So, now you’re just ignoring me? I’m sorry I swore a lot in the last letter, OK? _

_ Teddy is asking after Scorpius again. He misses Scorpius. Really misses him. I know he’d love to have Scorpius over for dinner.  _

_ Please write back, _

_ Harry _

_ _

_*_

Draco continued to ignore Harry’s letters and, when a tatty-looking house-elf dressed in a toga made from a series of multi-coloured handkerchiefs sewn together came through Harry’s Floo and announced that “Filby has Harry Potter’s potions from Master Draco, sir,” before dumping them on the table and disappearing again through the Floo, two weeks after Draco had last written to him, Harry flipped and sent a Howler, before instantly regretting it. He’d changed a lot of the years, but apparently his temper and instinct to ‘act first, think later’ were the same as they’d ever been. He’d only ever sent two Howlers in his life previously. One had been to Vernon and Petunia at two in the morning, when he was nineteen and he and Ron were drunk from cheap Muggle beer. It had been done on the spur of the moment for a laugh, and consisted only of him and Ron yelling the word ‘BOO!’ as loudly as they could before bursting into hysterics. The other had been to the editor of the _Daily Prophet_ a few weeks after he began Auror trainingafter it published an article speculating whether Harry was mentally stable enough for a career in Magical Law Enforcement. He’d thoroughly bemoaned both of those Howlers afterwards (if anything, the _Prophet_ used the Howler as further evidence of his mental instability), and, Harry thought wryly, he’d just made it three for three, wishing he could snatch back the owl the instant it disappeared from sight. Besides, when had be become this creepy stalker-like person who sends Howlers just because someone hasn’t written back to them for a few days? Harry suspected it was around the same time he decided he was fed up with giving a damn what other people thought about him and decided to go after what he wanted, for a change. Plus Draco was being infuriating. 

When two days passed and Harry still heard nothing, his resolve in his decision to pursue Draco was crumbling pathetically around him. He was completely convinced now that he’d blown any chance, no matter how slim, he’d had of breaking that icy exterior. He’d considered simply showing up at Malfoy Manor, but he still had some pride. He was prepared to chase; Harry wasn’t prepared to beg. 

The sound of his doorbell ringing at half past ten at night made him jump out of his skin. Hardly anyone ever rang the bell. They either used the Floo or Apparated in when Harry was expecting visitors. A ring of the bell, and certainly so late at night, was almost unprecedented. He switched off the TV he wasn’t properly watching anyway and, arming himself with his wand, cautiously made his way to the door. 

A quick one-way See-through Charm showed him it was Draco on the other side of the door. And he looked furious. Harry ended his spell and opened the door. 

“What,” Draco barked, thrusting a small pile of grey charred remains that clearly used to be a scarlet envelope into Harry’s outstretched hands, “is this?” He stormed over the threshold and marched into Harry’s living room, grey wool coat billowing behind him. Even livid, Draco looked good. Harry couldn’t contain a small smile. 

“It looks like a pile of ash, Draco,” he said to the vacant spot where Draco had stood seconds previously. “And please, do come in out of the snow, won’t you?”

He returned to the living room, tipping the burnt remains of his Howler into the waste paper bin as he passed. Draco was stood in the centre of the room, facing away from Harry, shoulders tense and his hands balled into fists.

“Can I get you a coffee?” Harry asked. A split second later, Draco spun around to face him, and Harry knew at once he’d said the wrong thing.

“Coffee?” Draco repeated, his voice full of cold fury. “ _Coffee_?” You send a Howler to my personal address for no good reason, in which you call me, now what was it? Oh yes, ‘an ignorant, callous piece of crap’ and think a cup of fucking coffee will solve anything?”

It was the first time Harry had ever heard Draco swear, and the word sounded foreign on his lips. 

“How dare you,” Draco continued. “How dare you! What gives you the right… just because…” He sat down on the arm of Harry’s sofa. When he looked at Harry, however, it was disappointment and hurt, not anger, that was on Draco’s face, and this made Harry’s stomach physically ache. 

“I’m sorry,” Harry said, after a long, extremely uncomfortable silence. “I didn’t mean it. Any of it. I don’t think you’re ignorant, or callous, and I certainly don’t think you’re a piece of crap.” The knot in his stomach suddenly rose sharply north, and he tried to swallow it back down, unsuccessfully. His eyes were pricking. _He was close to crying because he’d hurt Draco Malfoy’s feelings._ It really was time for Harry to accept he truly was never going to have a normal, straightforward life. 

“Your incompetent owl delivered it whilst I was in the shower and left it on my bed. Scorpius found it and opened it,” Draco said, and Harry closed his eyes. “My parents heard it. My entire family, Potter! I can’t tell them you’re a former patient of mine and that apparently you’re a Snitch short of a Quidditch set, because if I did that _I’d drop down dead in front of them,_ thanks to the Unbreakable Vow, so now they think… actually I don’t know what they think, other than something very, very weird is going on, because first of all I invite Harry Potter to a private Christmas party then weeks later he is sending offensive mail to my private residence and I-” He stops talking, apparently at a loss for words. “Could you not just take the hint?”

“You weren’t replying to my letters,” Harry said, knowing full well that we was in the wrong here. “I just wanted your attention.”

“That would be ‘the hint’ to which I was referring,” Draco said. “You cannot have my attention. Usually if an invitee refuses an invitation then ignores a letter, the inviter will stop trying to contact them.”

“But why?” Harry asked. “Why do you keep shutting me out, Draco? We keep talking, we get on well, Scorpius and Teddy have a fantastic time together, then you let one little part of you show, one tiny vulnerability, and it’s like you’re made of stone again. I’m trying to be your friend, but you keep pushing me away.”

“We are not friends,” Draco said, and his voice was so void now of emotion that it made Harry’s blood run cold. “We are not friends, we never were friends, and we are not going to be friends. We were just therapist and patient, and now we’re no longer even that, there is absolutely no reason for our correspondence to continue. Got it?”

“You confide in all your patients that you’re gay, do you?” Harry retorted. “Tell them how your wife died? Do you invite all your patients over to spend Christmas Day with them? There’s something about me, something you saw, that meant you allowed yourself to open up to me. Because whatever you tell yourself, Draco, we were friends. Or at least we were on the way to it. We were getting on perfectly until I kissed you under the mistletoe and-”

“Don’t mention that,” Draco said, in barely more than a whisper. “It didn’t happen.”

“Yes it did!” Harry yelled. “It did happen, and I liked it and so did you, and you know as well as I do that it would have happened again if the kids hadn’t come round the corner at that second arguing! You wanted it just as much as I did. You can lie to yourself if you like but don’t you dare lie to me too! I’m so sick and tired of lies!”

“I can’t want it,” Draco said, but Harry could hear a tremble in his voice now. “It can’t happen.”

The change in tense didn’t pass Harry by, as a flicker of hope was ignited. Harry could almost see Draco warring with himself. 

“Draco,” he began, but Draco stood suddenly, his cheeks pink, either from emotion or the heat from Harry’s fire, and strode over to him. He shoved Harry forcefully, pushing him into the wall. 

“I’ve told you, Potter, not to call me Draco,” he said furiously then, before Harry could register what was happening, lips, cold and chapped from the harsh January weather, were pressing against his, rough and determined, and it was all Harry could do to remember to breathe as he parted his own and began to kiss back heatedly. Something deep within him roared in triumph. _Yes_. A small gasp left his throat and he’d not felt so alive for months, years even. The tingle he’d felt when he’d kissed Draco under the mistletoe was nothing, _nothing_ , compared to the sheer heart-stopping bolt of electricity that was surging through him now, and he was on fire. Harry’s hands snaked up and tangled themselves in Draco’s hair as he felt Draco’s hands to the same to his. They were pressed against one another, and Harry was certain he could feel the outline of an erection pressed against his thigh. He thrust up experimentally, pushing his own erection into Draco’s hip, earning an exhale of approval as one of the hands tangled in his hair stoked down Harry’s back and grabbed his behind, pulling them even closer together. The kiss was hot, and inexpert, but oh god it was good, Harry thought, as Draco’s tongue brushed his own, and Harry was sure he was going to come apart from the inside-

But then there was nothing. No hands, no kiss, no wonderful hardness pressed against him.Harry opened his eyes, confused and extremely turned-on, to see Draco, standing a few feet away from him and looking like he was on the verge of tears. 

“That should not have happened,” Draco said in a choked voice, refusing to look at him. “This cannot happen. Ever. Goodbye, Potter.” Then he turned on the spot and Disapparated. 

“What-” Harry said into the now-empty living room, the arousal thrumming through his body now mingling with crushing disappointment and rejection, and Harry thought the juxtaposition of sensation was extremely unpleasant. It was true then. Draco really didn’t want him. That was it. It was over. The feeling of sadness that swept over him was very nearly overwhelming. 

Harry didn’t remember much of the rest of the evening. He barely remembered leaving the house and visiting the twenty-four hour Tesco a few miles from him. He vaguely remembered buying a large bottle of vodka, and swigging its neat contents like it was mineral water, relishing in the punishing burn as the vodka slipped down his throat and numbed his senses. 

He certainly didn’t remember firecalling Ron and Hermione, but he must have done, as Ron was with him, looking white and alarmed and still dressed in his pyjamas, which were slightly covered in soot from the Floo.

“’S no more than I’ve earned,” Harry slurred. “I don’ deserve love.”

“Harry, mate, what on earth has happened?” Ron said, seeing the half-empty Smirnoff bottle and Vanishing it with a flick of his wand. “And you don’t need that shit, either.”

“It’s Matthew again,” Harry said. “No one can love me ‘cause they know what I did to Matthew.”

“Harry,” Ron said, looking frightened now. “Please, talk to me. Don’t shut me out. Don’t go backwards.”

“Can’ talk. Too pissed,” Harry replied. 

“Okay, Harry, let’s get you to bed,” Ron said. He drew his wand, pointed it at Harry and Levitated him up the stairs to his room, then placed him onto his bed. Ron removed Harry’s glasses, spelled an empty glass on the bedside table full of water, and pulled the duvet up to Harry’s shoulders. “I’m not leaving. I’ll kip in the spare room, alright?” 

“He prob’ly hates me,” Harry mumbled. “My fault. All my fault. Payback for Charlie.”

“Payback for what?” Ron said. 

But Harry was already asleep.

*

_ He was in The Place. He’d not visited here for months. He could hear the crying- a distressed child. Harry made his way to the sound, only to find a skeletal corpse, about the size of a year-old infant, with a shock of red hair still attached. Harry knelt down to the child’s body, when all of a sudden a bony hand shot forwards, secured itself around Harry’s throat and squeezed. Sharp claw-like fingernails pierced the skin on Harry’s neck and droplets of crimson pooled at the puncture sites.  _

_ “Hello, Daddy,” the body said. _

_ _

_*_

Harry’s eyes shot open. He’d been yelling, he knew he had. He just had time to register Ron’s blurred outline at the doorway before a huge wave of nausea swept over him. He leant over the side of his bed and emptied his stomach of the alcohol that he had imbibed the night before. It was still pitch black outside. Harry tried to see the alarm clock but it was too fuzzy without his glasses. His head was pounding. 

“It’s just after six, mate,” Ron said, answering Harry’s unspoken question as he Vanished the pile of vomit from the floor and handing him the glass of water. “Harry, what the hell is going on?”

“Dream,” Harry said, taking a drink of the water and finally locating his glasses and slipping them on. He noticed his head was pounding and, oh god, vodka. So much vodka. “I didn’t take my sleeping potion last night.”

“I know it was a dream,” Ron said. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen you have a nightmare. I do remember you at Hogwarts, you know. I meant, what happened to get you in such a state? You’ve not touched alcohol for months, not since you started getting help, then you firecall Hermione and me at one in the morning in tears and barely able to string a sentence together.”

“Sorry.” Harry picked up the remainders of the glass of water and downed it. Ron spelled it full again, and Harry drank it all once more. Bloody hangovers. Well, this one he felt he’d thoroughly earned. “Make me a coffee and we’ll talk.”

Harry took his time getting up and dressed. A cool shower did little to rid his head of its fuzziness, and he still felt bloody awful when he emerged from it, ten minutes later. His head was still spinning, and his stomach in addition to the headache felt terrible. He threw on the first clean clothes his hands touched and he gingerly made his way downstairs. Ron had made coffee. He also slid two slices of thick buttered toast onto a plate and pushed them towards Harry. “Eat,” Ron commanded, biting into a slice of his own toast. 

For a few minutes Harry sat in silence, other than the sound of crunching toast. His mind was reeling. He also hated himself for reaching for vodka the first time something had gone wrong. Of course things were going to go wrong sometimes. He wasn’t magically healed; Draco had said as much when Harry was in therapy. He’d warned Harry about relapses. And Harry’s reaction the first time he’d experienced a relapse was to reach for the booze. It’s not like he had been an alcoholic before, but Harry knew that he’d definitely been heading that way, and by reaching for drink at the first sign of trouble he’d just proven to himself he must never, ever touch the stuff again. Especially if it made him forget to take his sleeping potion. He could still see that corpse, the body of his son, as bony, decomposed hands reached up towards his neck… the dream had been his punishment.

Harry couldn’t eat anything else, and put down his unfinished slice, feeling utterly nauseated. If Draco refused to give him any more potions after last night, then he was royally screwed. Ron, clearly realising it would be fruitless trying to get him to eat more, sent the plates to the sink and charmed them to wash themselves. Then he poured Harry another strong coffee. “Talk,” he said.

And, to his own surprise, Harry did. And, because he was Harry Potter, and subtlety had never been a strong point of his, he plunged straight in at the deep end.

“I kissed Draco Malfoy last night,” he said, and thought in any other situation he’d have thoroughly enjoyed the horrified look on Ron’s face. “Then he pretty much rejected me and buggered off, and I can’t stop thinking about him.” He sighed, ran his hands over his face, and said the words he never thought he’d say. “I think I love him, Ron. I’m in love with Malfoy, and I have been for a while. And I don’t know what the hell I’m going to do about it.”

“Harry,” Ron said slowly, “in the last few months I’ve learnt you’re gay. I’ve come to terms with you divorcing my sister. I learnt to deal with those two things. I told you then I’d always be your best friend, and I meant that. But now you’re telling me you’re in love with Malfoy, who, aside from being a Marked Death Eater and complete shit, was your counsellor? Mate, have you lost your bloody mind?”

“Probably,” Harry conceded. “I thought he liked me back. I really did.” He put his head in his hands. “Last night- the drinking and stuff- that was a one-off. I’m never going back there, ever. But it’s what I deserve isn’t it? Why do I think I have the right to be happy and find another relationship already, so soon after what I did to Ginny? The divorce has only been final a month.”

“Stop. Stop that self-blame now,” Ron said. “Harry, Malfoy has behaved appallingly. He’s supposed to be a counsellor, a bloody professional, for crying out loud. He knows your history, knows how vulnerable you are, but still kisses you then buggers off without so much as an explanation? That’s not on. It’s not a sign, or a punishment for you. It’s just Malfoy being Malfoy. He’s a stupid, selfish wanker who’s never given a toss about anyone but himself and he always will be.” He looked furious. “Harry, he shouldn’t be toying with people’s emotions like that, especially after what you’ve been through. It’s just plain cruel.”

“Yeah, well,” Harry said, “it doesn’t matter anyway does it? ‘Cause obviously nothing is going to happen anyway. He made that quite clear when he was here last night.”

“Why was he here in the first place?”

Harry explained about the letters, and how Draco ignored him, and how he ended up sending a Howler. The corners of Ron’s mouth twitched. He didn’t mention the mistletoe and the almost-kiss of a few weeks previously. It felt too private. 

“Do you think you’ll be okay on your own for a bit?” Ron asked. “I really need to get home and check on Hermione and the kids.”

“Yeah, course,” Harry said. “Tell Hermione what I’ve told you for me. And Ron? Thanks, mate. Even after everything, you were here for me last night. You’re a true friend.”

“Anytime, Harry,” Ron said. He walked to the fireplace, took a pinch of Floo powder, and tossed it into the flames, instantly turning them emerald green. “Oh, one more thing before I go, what did you mean last night? About this being payback for Charlie?”

_ Oh, bollocks _ . Right, that was it. Harry was never, ever touching alcohol in any form again. Not even the hand sanitiser stuff they used in the gents’ at the Ministry. 

“I have absolutely no idea,” Harry replied, praying his cheeks weren’t scarlet and incredibly thankful Ron couldn’t do Legilimency. “I was drunk.”

Thankfully, Ron accepted this response without question and disappeared. Harry closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. No more lies, he’d promised himself. Even chastised Draco for it the previous night. Yet he was still holding on to the biggest lie of them all. 

*

The rest of January and half of February passed in a blur of activity for Harry. Determined to try and forget the name Draco Malfoy, and not let himself lapse back into the depression he felt was only just around the corner, he threw himself into work, arriving before the other Aurors in the mornings and finishing last at night. He took Teddy to the Tower of London, Thorpe Park, and had a film a pizza night with him at Grimmauld Place on his days off. He had dinner frequently with Ron and Hermione. He even went for a (non-alcoholic) drink in Hogsmeade with Neville; something he hadn’t done since before Ginny’s pregnancy. He made sure he didn’t spend too much time alone. He most certainly didn’t contact Draco. 

The nightmares, thankfully, didn’t return, and Draco was at least still supplying the potions via his house-elf. The first time the elf made the delivery, Harry was sorely tempted to pour the entire lot down the sink, unwilling to have any part of him in debt to Draco, when Draco clearly wanted nothing to do with him. In fact he’d got as far as uncorking the first phial and holding over the plug hole before images of rotting flesh, skeletons and blood filled his mind. Swallowing his pride, Harry re-corked the phials and stored them safely away, hating himself a little for his weakness but unable to give up the one thing that made his night times bearable. 

When Valentine’s Day arrived, Harry pointedly ignored it and volunteered himself for the night shift. He figured it would be easier for him to be working than it would sitting at home feeling sorry for himself. He was exhaustedly tidying his desk after handing over to the morning team after his shift had ended when he overheard a conversation between two rookie Aurors who’d finished their training in the autumn. 

“I can’t believe it’s back! The amount of grief we had over it during Christmas, remember? And now it stuffed up Valentine’s Day too.”

“I know. I was called out four times for it on Christmas Day.”

“I was out three times last night. Elizabeth was not impressed. And I’d been on a promise! Of course we’re lumbered with it again. Who’d give the job of investigating roses that curse the recipient into a completely immobile state to Potter or Weasley? While they’re off solving murders and chasing dark wizards, we’re stuck with cursed flowers.”

“And when it was spelled into that mistletoe! All those people rooted to the spot unless they were kissed by their one true love. What a bunch of melodramatic codswallop. If I ever see a bunch of mistletoe again I’ll shove it up Robard’s arse.”

At this, Harry stopped, and, forgetting he was supposed to be eavesdropping, marched up to the men.

“What’s that about mistletoe?” he said loudly, causing both rookies to jump and glare at him in disgust. He really, really couldn’t care less. 

“Um, Auror Potter,” stammered the younger of the two- Alex, Harry thought. “It’s, ah, a case Simon and I have been given. Cursed roses which freeze a recipient, and-”

“Yes, I heard that,” Harry said, waving his hand impatiently. “The mistletoe. What is it about the mistletoe?” His heart was racing now. He was sure he hadn’t imagined something about having to be kissed by a person’s one true love in order to be released from the spell.

“It looks like some disgruntled witch cursed a bunch of mistletoe,” Alex replied. “Apparently she set it up in some misguided romantic gesture to her boyfriend, to prove they were soulmates or such other crap, and when her kiss didn’t release him, she knew she wasn’t his true love and flipped out, returned to the shop she bought the mistletoe from and applied the curse to the entire stock. People were buying it unaware, hanging it, then getting trapped. We’ve managed to trace every single case back to a single supplier: Orchis Morio on Diagon Alley. Owned by a bloke called Blaise Zabini.”

Harry could hear a whistling in his ears. Zabini, Draco’s friend and owner of a large florists, would almost certainly supply Malfoy Manor with its flowers and plants when needed. Chances were extremely high he had unwittingly supplied the mistletoe that had cursed Draco. He had even been at the Christmas party when Draco had become trapped; most likely he’d delivered it just hours before. It all fit. Bloody hell. 

“And you’re certain a person can only be released from a kiss from their one true love?” Harry said. It all sounded far-fetched to him, like something out of a Disney film.

“Absolutely positive,” Simon replied. “It’s what gave us the most trouble, given at least three people snared didn’t have anyone to free them. St Mungo’s had to intervene in those cases in the end, and let’s just say it got very messy and involved a lot of Skele-Gro and limb re-growth. And now it’s back in the flowers, some copycat case, and…”

But the rest of his speech was drowned out as Harry’s mind began to race. Why hadn’t he heard about this? Aurors rarely discussed cases, true, but this seemed like something that would have reached the rest of the department if not the _Prophet_ , from the sheer novelty factor and risk to the public alone. _You’ve not exactly been paying attention to much recently, though, have you?_ said a voice in his head. And Harry, trying to avoid any speculation surrounding his and Ginny’s split, hadn’t picked up the _Prophet_ in weeks. 

“What’s the spell?” Harry demanded. Alex looked like he wanted to refuse to give it to him, but Harry outranked him. Rookies virtually never said no to more experienced Aurors. 

“Amor Verus,” he said finally. “It’s Latin for ‘true love’.”

“Can I read your case file?” Harry asked, tiredness from the night shift forgotten. Simon looked confused but nodded and retrieved the file. 

Two hours later, Harry had little doubt that this was exactly the same spell Draco had experienced. He also had little doubt that Alex and Simon had been right and it was only a person’s true love who could release them from the enchantment.

And he had absolutely no doubt whatsoever that he’d been the one that had released Draco from it.

He returned the file to the archives and all but ran out of the Auror office. 

“Oi! Slow down!” Ron called after him. “Where are you going in such a hurry?”

“To buy some mistletoe,” Harry replied, not pausing to look back. 

*

Mistletoe was surprisingly difficult to obtain in mid-February. Having finally managed to find some in a Muggle garden centre, Harry Apparated straight to St Mungo’s. Harry knew Draco would be on his lunch break currently, which allowed him to put his admittedly not-very-well-thought-through plan into action. Pausing only to conceal himself in the Invisibility Cloak he always carried on his person when he was at work (it was a mightily useful tool in his job), he slipped past the receptionist and entered Draco’s office when he knew she was fully concentrating on the copy of _Witch Weekly_ opened out on her desk. 

As he had suspected, Draco wasn’t there. Harry pulled off the Cloak, stuffed it into his robes, and took out the mistletoe. With a quick spell, it Levitated it into the air, where it hovered a couple of feet away from the door. Draco would have to pass it to fully enter his office. Mistletoe in place, all Harry had to do now was wait. 

Twenty minutes later, he heard the turn of a doorknob and watched as Draco entered the office and closed the door behind him. He froze in surprise as soon as he saw Harry and, to Harry’s immense relief, stood directly under the mistletoe.

“What on earth-” was all Draco managed to say before Harry pointed his wand at the mistletoe and said, “ _Amor Verus_!” 

Draco’s body instantly snapped rigid. Eyes, full of pure fury, glared at him from his motionless face. _Good_ , Harry thought. _Let him show some emotion finally._

“Déjà vu,” Harry said, pointing to the mistletoe. Draco’s eyes- the only part of him able to move, looked up as far as they could and, for the first time, clearly caught a glimpse of the plant as when the eyes returned to Harry they held a fearful recognition. “This morning I heard about a very interesting case some rookie Aurors have been working on. Perhaps you’ve heard of it? The ‘Lover’s Curse’ case, they’re calling it. It’s a spell placed on mistletoe- the one I just cast- that roots a person to the spot under it. Basically, you’re trapped until a kiss from your one true love can set you free. But you already knew this, didn’t you? At your Manor, you knew then that I was the only one who could free you.” He looked at Draco full in the eyes then. “I should hate you for what you did to me a couple of weeks ago, you know. I’ve tried to forget you. I really have, but for some reason, I appear to have fallen in love with you, you arsehole. But I’m certain you already knew that.” 

He looked again at the mistletoe, knowing full well that if this went hideously wrong he’d be lucky to escape Azkaban, not just losing his job. But his mind was made up. It was worth the chance. “I’ve freed you from this spell once before, but will it work again? No more messing me around. It’s time to find out if you feel the same way about me as I do about you. Do you love me, too, Draco?”

With that, Harry leant in for a kiss. 


End file.
